The sheer idea of moving to Vermont from my shitty little apartment in New Jersey wasnt exactly hard, but there is a fondness that grows on you in these places. The way the sink didnt drain. The way the hall always smelled. The way the landlord would knock if the rent was 20 minutes late. Those things become sacred rituals thaf remind you why you stay.

Part of the struggle with this leaving was due to the moments after mom died. I remember the grief that washed over me. And the anxious anticipation of having to move to a tiny apartment with my dad. This little crap box of a two bedroom apartment that vibrated from trains and I-95 was the only thing that tied me to my dad. To my mom. To who I was before. Sure I had a few pictures and a few items. But as much as I hated this place, it was something I loved deeply.