I cannot think of a title

The tumbling of the dryer shakes the entire apartment

The slap slap slap of my wet clothes hitting the metal drum 

Mixed with the rattling of the apartment windows

I can feel the vibrations move through the soles of my feet and it shakes any semblance of a thought forming

 and I remind myself that the building is old.

That the bones of the building are not used to such modern adjustments and that here the sun finds its way inside,

And that the cat loves her perch beside the windowsill and beneath the air conditioning unit. 

Sometimes I pace between the spaces, passing from the living room through the kitchen into the bedroom and then bathroom. Back, again.

You said you need space — to move, to be.

For you, the breadth of it was not enough.

I remember sitting in the corner with my friend as she cried over a boy. The apartment was mostly empty besides some boxes. We drank wine from paper cups left over from my birthday the year before and I remember thinking, “I could fill this place with love and light.”

The neighbor upstairs just moved in a month or two ago,

Sometimes I can hear him fighting with a woman.

Every morning he showers at 7:30 a.m, and I can hear the water running, sometimes he’ll play the radio.

I remind myself that the building has character,

That the quirks are endearing and attempt to swallow my mild annoyance.

I do not think of another home in another neighborhood,

I am uniquely blessed in the ability to take even the most broken home and workshop it, I remind myself.

I am ivy and wildflowers and the weeds that break apart concrete sidewalks. 

Each day, I work on my projects little by little. 

Maybe I’m trying to tell myself that changes take time.

When the sales clerk at the hardware store approaches me, I wave away his questions.

I believe that I can learn to do anything, fix everything.

I walk the neighborhood until I’m racing sunlight home,

And then I write this — while the dryer is running.