The Columns IV
I used to like my apartment. It was built back in the seventies and hadn’t really been renovated since. The four columns stood tall through it all, leading you down the circular drive, all the way to letter C. We would explore it sometimes, walk the halls, and admire the long-standing decor. It felt like we stepped into a time machine walking those halls. When you did make your way back to 216, it wasn’t much better. The garbage disposal hadn’t run since the ’90s and the lime green door handles to the wooden doors belonged in some sort of time capsule. It was an open concept, no place for a table but I bought one anyway. It took me a couple of months to find the rhythm of living alone. But once I had it, it was like things clicked into place.
It stayed mine until it was ours and it was so good for a bit. I had stayed in your apartment for the month before I found mine. We had moved out at the same time, drew straws, and yours came out short. The hole in the ceiling that dripped brown sludge and the broken a/c made the summer feel unbearable. The paranoid neighbors were eventually evicted, rooms demolished that let their secrets out, along with the rats that crawled through the holes in your walls. Winter came around and I never came to get my bike that occupied your only hallway.
The day you arrived and brought your things to mine, I was hesitant, resistant even. The fights ended in compromise, I let the black bookshelf we built together occupy a wall the living room. The black futon that I bought from some frat boy named Drew was gone, we tossed it out the window and brought in our old sofa. You hung up some art, I gave up half my closet and gained some sort of peace of mind. I’ve said it once but I’ll repeat myself, that living with your best friend can be bliss.
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The memories that are locked in these off-white walls are deafening. Along with the new neighbors, the ones who fight well into the night, and the trap music that wiggles its way up through the carpet. I still can’t hear the wires through the wall, transmitting their electricity to the hundreds of people who live in this circle. The TV is hidden in the closet, its stand is now a catch-all. You’ll be home soon, requiring us to stay here for the next two weeks.
We all have our responsibilities in this and mine seems to be the glue, which is new for me. If anything, I’m too emotional, too flighty for that title. Maybe I could be the server, bringing hot chicken home or stopping by HyVee to buy organic overpriced snacks. I could play the part of a security guard. I hide the keys deep in the couch cushions and sit right on top of them. This isn’t a prison, I’m not a corrections officer, but I stay up at night, watching over them so they can really sleep. Maybe I’m the hired comic relief, taking selfies of this family dinner that make Picklemans a new favorite of mine. We haven’t eaten together in ten years at least and I think it’s a little silly that this is the part that makes me smile. But the glue, that seems wrong.
After a few days, it becomes harder to stay in this one-bedroom apartment. Harder for all of us, but you are in anguish. Your words, not mine. I’m lucky I have work and church to escape to, but I come back every night. Sometimes, we take a field trip to my new house, to the trails that make our legs ache but anything for some relief. I take you there by myself and listen to your pleas, this is torture. This is reality, and I don’t really think we know what we’re doing.
-------------
I may be condemning myself but in my defense, the last couple of months have been a blur and I return back to the columns. It is what it is at this point and at least I know it. Any magic it had is gone, leaving me stuck waving goodbye and wishing safe travels as I drop the two of them off at the airport. Friends offer their beds in support but I have one right here in the middle of my living room. A one-bedroom apartment turned studio.
A dominoes delivery driver circles the complex, they’re looking to see who is the current resident. Maybe you’re not paranoid if someone is actually looking for you. Is there no place that’s off-limits I ask them, and they apologize only to take it back two days later. The blinds that let in the sunlight remain closed. I take his car and drive it far away from here.
There is a silver lining hidden amongst these packed boxes with sharpie labels. The pool is open for the summer and it’s a nice one too. On Sundays I take my yarn and crochet poolside, listening to bad bunny on repeat. I imagine the day when you’ll return, that maybe we could all swim together, admiring the ducks and turtles that float along the lake. There are some good moments, friends who take the time to stop by, and even sleepover. They don’t know it, but they’re keeping me sane.
-------------
My grandparents are fascinated with the ducks that swim in the middle of the columns. They’re kind to compliment its rundown hallways and the antiquated cherub statues that spit water out of their mouths. Timeless. We are getting our money’s worth, with a total of 5 people in my one-bedroom turned hotel room. They arrive with groceries for the next week and emotions are running high after the 16-hour drive. A bottle of kombucha left fermenting in the trunk turned over on Grandpa’s Sunday suit and some are happier to be back than others. She cries angry tears at the door to their surprise, but not mine. Coming back is much harder once you’ve said goodbye. We bring the suitcases in and I’m instantly angry. I glare at him, but we can’t afford to stay mad in a couple of hundred square feet. Dad has offered his place as a refuge but after being alone here I can’t take him up on it, not yet.
We pack everything up without knowing where to put it. It’s a combination of his and mine, which only adds to the stress. There are negotiations, threats, nice walks down to Sequiota. The room slowly loses its guitars, the two keyboards, and the couch. I bring the scanner down to my storage unit and he keeps my chairs. The pressure to leave hangs over us like a storm cloud, ready to unleash its rain.
It’s decision time and she reassures me that it’s okay, but I can see I’ve disappointed her in staying behind. They have to go and I have to turn in the keys. I check the apartment for anything left behind, maybe something forgotten in a drawer. But it’s empty, it looks the same as when I moved in. No evidence that we were there besides the paint stains on the carpet.
It stayed mine until it was ours and it was so good for a bit. I had stayed in your apartment for the month before I found mine. We had moved out at the same time, drew straws, and yours came out short. The hole in the ceiling that dripped brown sludge and the broken a/c made the summer feel unbearable. The paranoid neighbors were eventually evicted, rooms demolished that let their secrets out, along with the rats that crawled through the holes in your walls. Winter came around and I never came to get my bike that occupied your only hallway.
The day you arrived and brought your things to mine, I was hesitant, resistant even. The fights ended in compromise, I let the black bookshelf we built together occupy a wall the living room. The black futon that I bought from some frat boy named Drew was gone, we tossed it out the window and brought in our old sofa. You hung up some art, I gave up half my closet and gained some sort of peace of mind. I’ve said it once but I’ll repeat myself, that living with your best friend can be bliss.
-------------
The memories that are locked in these off-white walls are deafening. Along with the new neighbors, the ones who fight well into the night, and the trap music that wiggles its way up through the carpet. I still can’t hear the wires through the wall, transmitting their electricity to the hundreds of people who live in this circle. The TV is hidden in the closet, its stand is now a catch-all. You’ll be home soon, requiring us to stay here for the next two weeks.
We all have our responsibilities in this and mine seems to be the glue, which is new for me. If anything, I’m too emotional, too flighty for that title. Maybe I could be the server, bringing hot chicken home or stopping by HyVee to buy organic overpriced snacks. I could play the part of a security guard. I hide the keys deep in the couch cushions and sit right on top of them. This isn’t a prison, I’m not a corrections officer, but I stay up at night, watching over them so they can really sleep. Maybe I’m the hired comic relief, taking selfies of this family dinner that make Picklemans a new favorite of mine. We haven’t eaten together in ten years at least and I think it’s a little silly that this is the part that makes me smile. But the glue, that seems wrong.
After a few days, it becomes harder to stay in this one-bedroom apartment. Harder for all of us, but you are in anguish. Your words, not mine. I’m lucky I have work and church to escape to, but I come back every night. Sometimes, we take a field trip to my new house, to the trails that make our legs ache but anything for some relief. I take you there by myself and listen to your pleas, this is torture. This is reality, and I don’t really think we know what we’re doing.
-------------
I may be condemning myself but in my defense, the last couple of months have been a blur and I return back to the columns. It is what it is at this point and at least I know it. Any magic it had is gone, leaving me stuck waving goodbye and wishing safe travels as I drop the two of them off at the airport. Friends offer their beds in support but I have one right here in the middle of my living room. A one-bedroom apartment turned studio.
A dominoes delivery driver circles the complex, they’re looking to see who is the current resident. Maybe you’re not paranoid if someone is actually looking for you. Is there no place that’s off-limits I ask them, and they apologize only to take it back two days later. The blinds that let in the sunlight remain closed. I take his car and drive it far away from here.
There is a silver lining hidden amongst these packed boxes with sharpie labels. The pool is open for the summer and it’s a nice one too. On Sundays I take my yarn and crochet poolside, listening to bad bunny on repeat. I imagine the day when you’ll return, that maybe we could all swim together, admiring the ducks and turtles that float along the lake. There are some good moments, friends who take the time to stop by, and even sleepover. They don’t know it, but they’re keeping me sane.
-------------
My grandparents are fascinated with the ducks that swim in the middle of the columns. They’re kind to compliment its rundown hallways and the antiquated cherub statues that spit water out of their mouths. Timeless. We are getting our money’s worth, with a total of 5 people in my one-bedroom turned hotel room. They arrive with groceries for the next week and emotions are running high after the 16-hour drive. A bottle of kombucha left fermenting in the trunk turned over on Grandpa’s Sunday suit and some are happier to be back than others. She cries angry tears at the door to their surprise, but not mine. Coming back is much harder once you’ve said goodbye. We bring the suitcases in and I’m instantly angry. I glare at him, but we can’t afford to stay mad in a couple of hundred square feet. Dad has offered his place as a refuge but after being alone here I can’t take him up on it, not yet.
We pack everything up without knowing where to put it. It’s a combination of his and mine, which only adds to the stress. There are negotiations, threats, nice walks down to Sequiota. The room slowly loses its guitars, the two keyboards, and the couch. I bring the scanner down to my storage unit and he keeps my chairs. The pressure to leave hangs over us like a storm cloud, ready to unleash its rain.
It’s decision time and she reassures me that it’s okay, but I can see I’ve disappointed her in staying behind. They have to go and I have to turn in the keys. I check the apartment for anything left behind, maybe something forgotten in a drawer. But it’s empty, it looks the same as when I moved in. No evidence that we were there besides the paint stains on the carpet.
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