The end of starting over

The concept of picking up and starting over is one of those American notions like baseball and apple pie.

This is not one of those stories. By definition, I didn’t do that. When I moved to my apartment on Second Street near Redondo Avenue, I had no new job or started out alone in the world. I, especially, did not have to make a new set of friends.

My life was the same in almost every sense except I had to find a new center. Months after the only relationship I had been in ended, I had been able to get on with my life.

This apartment was the first step since it represented a new starting point for my day.

The only real truth about me living the American idea of starting over was that I had no real possessions with me except for a laptop, clothes and stuff. I had no furniture, hardly any type of kitchen ware and no television.

I was fortunate to have a roommate who had all this and was willing to share. I had a bed, dresser and a place to start again.

And it did just that. This white apartment building was a crutch to help me until I got my life in a new order.

So when I got the eviction notice, just after four years and a few weeks after I moved in, it was hard. This place was my shelter through many tough times.

Alas, I have to go. It’s the law after all.

I’ll never forget what this apartment gave me, however.

Goodbye, for the last time, from apartment #1.