A wall is being painted, new flooring put in, the space
given a small facelift before the next person
begins their next chapter here, under the same high ceilings
I peered through more than a year ago, the moon
winking her soft, sad eyes. “It’s alright,” she’d said.
“It’s time.” And I packed up as much as would fit
into two bags and flew cross-country. If I’d stayed,
I imagine I would have started on the kitchen first,
laid down new countertops, resurfaced cupboards. But no.
Sometimes leaving is the only way to go.