So I found an apartment. And it’s gorgeous. I sign the papers on Friday.

I’ve begun to dismantle our spare bedroom, which mainly houses items leftover from my move over 16 months ago that I just couldn’t find the right spot for. And leaning against the door jam, big glass of red wine in hand, I survey the bones and my chest tightens. I didn’t think packing would be this hard.

I notice that a room being taken apart, and one in the process of being assembled are achingly similar. The bare hooks on the wall—are they begging for a piece of art, or freshly exposed? An undressed mattress might be waiting for sheets or recently stripped. It’s like the sensory confusion that accompanies an usually warm day in winter that makes it feel like spring; or a cool afternoon in July that triggers memories of fall. Both signal change, transition.

I question my decision and though it’s clear sometimes more than others, I know this is right.