It was early when I pulled into the parking garage of my old apartment, around 7:30 a.m. The place felt empty, unfamiliar, and a bit cold. With a hard deadline this time, I got straight to work cleaning. As I assessed all the little things that needed to be done (like cleaning the track for the sliding doors, the baseboards, the tops of the fridge and cabinets, etc. in addition to the normal bathroom, kitchen, and floor cleaning, I knew it would take some time even in a small 500 square foot studio.
At one point while I was cleaning the kitchen, the clear, loud song of a Carolina Wren filled my ears. I paused. I caught sight of her in the tree just feet from my window. Then tears started to roll down my cheeks. She had come to say goodbye.
I reminisced of all the early mornings (just before sunrise) and late evenings (just after sunset) we had spent together in the first six or more months after the separation. She singing her song from somewhere hidden in the trees as I slowly created new routines and started to rebuild. She was with me in my lowest moments. She was the reminder that the sun always returns even after the darkest night.
She then sang from a tree a bit further away before fading off into the distance. I then finished my cleaning, swept and mopped the floors, and headed out to find lunch while the floors dried. I walked through Railroad Park and headed into the business district to a food court not far from where I used to work.
I got stuck on the realization of how little shade exists in Railroad Park. It was something I had never noticed when I lived here. And although the streets were familiar, my existence on them felt very unfamiliar. I felt like a completely different person that didn't belong there anymore. Can significant change happen in as short a time as six weeks?
I stopped in at my favorite poke place to enjoy one last bowl and then I retraced my steps back to my old apartment where I did one last walk through, took some photos and videos, and carried the last of my belongings out to my car which I unplugged and moved outside the gated area. I stopped in the office to turn in my keys.
I was a bit emotional as I removed them from my key ring so I shared a bit of my story and how much this apartment had meant to me with the woman in the office. There was understanding in her eyes. Anytime I have a vulnerable moment like this, even if what I share is short on details, I am reminded of how common the experience of being human is. We have more in common with everyone we interact with than we often realize.
Then I walked out of that apartment complex for the very last time, got in my car and plugged my hotel address into the navigation. As I drove to the Embassy Suites in the suburbs, I realized how little of Birmingham I had explored in the seven years I lived there. Downtown had been a bit of a bubble for me.
I met two friends for dinner out in the suburbs closer to where they live. The conversation felt different than previous ones had. These friends played such an incredible role in my last chapter. But as happens with a new start, they don't get a meaningful role in my next chapter. We are now observers in each others' respective separate lives. I hope a couple of them transcend time and stick around but I know the reality that many were really just meant for my last chapter and will eventually fade away.
Then this morning after breakfast at the hotel, I drove off and watched Birmingham disappear in the rearview mirror. I feel like I left as a tourist. It is no longer home. I can't go back. It has become a fond memory and a city to maybe occasionally visit (if I can even find a break in the busy schedule I've put together here in Atlanta).
Goodbye Birmingham.
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