The Final Weekend

50,398 voices rise up in the anticipation of a home run. A generator runs unrelentingly. The city bus wheezes and creaks. Heavy construction machinery emits a steady beep as it moves in reverse. A food service truck engine idles as the workers unload the perishables. A horn honks as a driver grows impatient at the person in front of him who is too busy texting to notice that the light has turned green. High heels click on a sidewalk. Two Chihuahuas yap incessantly each time someone dares pass their door frame. Glasses clink on patio tables. The elevator down the hall dings and dings and dings and dings.

Stop!

I love the city. But with The Sanctuary, on its private 35 acre ridge, so close to reality, each sound is an assault on my very humanity. I close my eyes and transport myself to the master bedroom, its patio doors flung wide open to… a rustling of brush as a fox runs by. Maybe a chickadee chirping. There are no curtains on any windows. There is no password on the WiFi. There is no awkward averting of eyes in the hallway or on the sidewalk. The dog leash hangs by the door, untouched for weeks.

Drunken kids shout friendly insults to each other as they walk down my alley and suddenly I’m in my living room again with the boxes waiting to be filled with all the objects that make whatever walls we inhabit ours uniquely. We bought the stylish urban condo dream once. We’ll buy it again someday. But right now, the hills are calling us to change.

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