Last night, at one in the morning, three people were in the process of moving into one of the apartments in the house next to us. Trying not to be creepy, I watched them at their task from my desk at the front window.
It was raining out and they looked disorganized. Their cube truck couldn’t find parking and was sitting in the middle of the street, being forced to move every 15 minutes or so by oncoming traffic. When the driver wasn’t getting the truck out of the way, she was holding a crappy looking umbrella over the two student-aged guys who were doing the moving. It was sweet, but likely not very helpful.
No matter, in spite of the rain and the wet and dark alley they had to negotiate through to move all their junk—most of it plastic bags or still on coat hangers—they seemed to be having a great time. Their banter came in through my open window, and there was a happy lightness to their voices. They were looking forward to their new start, to their lives.
I was 18 when I made my first independent move, going from Ottawa to Montreal, where I was to study at McGill. I couldn’t have been happier. The first day in my new life I stood in my dorm room, surrounded by all of my treasures. I had the window open just as wide as it would go and was blasting the coolest music that I knew of out into the city, telling everybody that I was present and that I was ready to meet them.