My feet reach the porch: green steps, cracked, faded, semi-stable. It’s the last days of October, and November’s early sting bites through the night air. I can feel something, deep in the pit of my stomach--an ache, almost, but deeper, filled with a million different things I can’t quite distinguish. It’s hard to come back sometimes; everything here feels more like home than anywhere else. My dog waits by the door-- he is a mix of confusion and excitement. So am I. 

I stand for a minute, alone on the porch, holding the last remnants of my home in a plain cardboard box. Moonlight glimmers across familiar broken windows and arched apartment building rooftops; its beam lands right on me, and I stare back up at it like it will give me some kind of answer. The chorus of cars flying down Jefferson and Lafayette and Van Dyke accompanies the moonlight and makes me realize just how much I’ll miss this. This symphony of engines is the deep meditative breaths of the city, of home. It’s hard to remember anything without it, to imagine anything in the future without it. I let their sound rush over me as I walk down the steps, towards the garage, towards the car, towards...home? Behind me, my dog trots along for a minute, but turns to run back up to the porch. He looks at me from its slanted peak, confused, head tilted to one side.

Why does this make me cry so hard? 

In the tranquil dark of the yard, a thick fog of memories from this place swirls around me. My sister, pajama sleeves pulled low over her hands, curly wild kid-hair astray, big tears rolling down her cheeks. My brother, a blur of energy, sitting outside with parents in the new fall dusk. Neighborhood kids laughing as they duck through the alley ways. Wine stained mouths during my parents book club meetings in the living room. Warm light from the one single street lamp cutting through the dark. Laying on the couch, bundles of blankets piled on top. My brother, awake and waiting when I get home late from babysitting. Black coffee clutched in shaky fingers. Dirt-caked hands in the garden. Scarred, bony ankles from wild razor scooter rides. Soaking wet bathing suits hung over warm porch railings. Sun-kissed shoulders stinging with aloe. Bright sun and baby-blue sky peaking through rust-colored leaves. Sunday night football playing behind new books. French-gray painted fingernails hanging golden Christmas tree lights. 

But this place isn’t mine, not anymore. It is bigger than me; it deserves more than just one set of joyful memories. So I take a deep breath and we drive away, chapped lips and blurred street lights through silent tears.