I’m moving tomorrow, on unexpectedly short notice—locally, thank goodness, so my glassware and china only had to be wrapped well enough to make it across town in the back seat of the car.

I’ve moved more than I like to think about, seven times within New York City alone, and the last night in a house or apartment never gets any less strange.  Twenty-four, forty-eight hours before, everything was in its usual place; now, stripped of your things, the rooms have their foreignness back.  Boxes are stacked, little mountain ranges of boxes, where it was convenient to pack them or where you imagine it will be convenient for the movers; in the meantime, you thread circuitous passes around them.

The last night before moving, I always think of Out Of Africa, when Meryl Karen is sitting in her empty living room, the record player (now, the iPod dock) left for last, by wine and candle light.

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