Saying Goodbye to # 303

In the calm of apartment #303, surrounded by soft conversations and unfinished dreams, I take a moment to pause. These walls, this space, a cradle of my daily life, full of special vibrations, soon to be a memory wrapped in the soft glow of hindsight. How true, they say, the looming loss sharpens appreciation, a loud call to love’s final showing. I will miss so many things.

The scent of chocolate and apple cinnamon candles and the sweetness of nag champa and palo santo incense once hung lightly in the air, a comforting veil that danced with the smell of roasted chicken, shrimp pasta, potato curries, and beef rotis. Those flavors, those aromas, are more than mere scents now—they are ghosts of comfort, memories of peace, and contentment.

The verandah beckoned with open arms each morning, the third floor’s gentle breeze a faithful companion to my contemplative dawns and reflective dusks. How will the mornings feel without this ritual, this gift of the breeze’s caress?

My silent sentinels, the golden Lucky Fortune Chinese cat, ever-watchful on the coffee table. The teddy bear with its pink bow on the bed, Bentley’s former fiancée — a duo of guardians over a realm that pulses with my heart’s every beat. They’ve seen and heard it all—the laughter, the tears, the burps, the quiet moments of reflection, sleeplessness, the nocturnal farts and hopeless desperation.

The kitchen, oh my cooking stage, where biryani masala and Indian magic mix, turmeric, and black pepper performed under my guidance, transforming into dishes of comfort and creation. How fervently I’ve pounded green cardamom, coaxing out seeds and aromas, laying the foundation of my beloved masala chai—a potion of warmth, a liquid, spice-filled hug.

The little elephant bell on the door, its delicate jingle a soundtrack to hellos and goodbyes, now chimes a somber farewell. And just a step away, the washer and dryer hummed their domestic lullaby, keeping step with the rhythm of home life.

And then there’s the temperamental toilet, a quirky fixture with a mood all its own, refusing to flush if not in a good mood.  It demanded patience and a gentle touch, often at the most inconvenient of times – its whims added an unexpected layer to my daily routine.

My cookbooks, a collection of favorite tales and tastes, are witnesses to a passion, a journey of flavors and learning. They’ve been companions in my food adventures for years, pages turned in times of curiosity, nourishment, and need.

What mornings will greet me without the comfort of a tamago croissant sandwich or evenings without the hearty embrace of oven-cooked beef shank stew? Each meal a chapter, each bite, a sentence in the story of #303.

I went up and down those daunting stairs, the so-called stairs from hell; my knees have borne witness to the ascent and descent, the daily climb. What new mountains will I scale? What new paths will I tread beneath my feet? I will miss that botheration and the dreadful anticipation of exercise.

The world outside intruded with the sound of private jets taking off from the airport and the train roaring on its tracks. This cacophony somehow became a lullaby, a reminder that life’s movement is ceaseless, even when our own seems to stall.

In the pantry, promises of flavorful meals awaited their fate, each ingredient a character in a dish yet to be savored, a story yet to unfold. My masala dabba filled with colorful spices and exotic fragrances.  Will they find their purpose in another kitchen, another one like #303?

The fan—oh, how it mimicked the Caribbean breeze of my Grenada, making days and nights bearable. Its gentle humming whispered of beaches, ocean waves,  and palm trees. 

Bentley’s paw scratching his snack drawer— looking for the Ducales crackers he so adores. He crunched those crackers with such glee and delight —a sound dearer than any melody.

And the flavors—oh, the flavors! My neighbor’s Nicaraguan pork and chicken nacatamales, the savory embrace of Tiago’s Mexican Restaurant’s tacos de birria, every mouthful a journey, a voyage in the comfort of my dining tray.

The art on the walls and José, the silent wooden guardian, his colors and contours a steadfast comfort, always facing the front door. My cherished collection of Chinese and Japanese plates, silent and patient witnesses to feasts, and quiet lunches and dinners.

The centerpiece, my beautiful chocolate leather sofa from Italy, a throne from which I ruled over this small kingdom of mine. There, Ziggy mimicked the chimes of the wind, serenading the day, while Alexa played the sound of thunderstorms to lull me to sleep in the bedroom.

The little red rice cooker, a birthday gift from Biryani, now an indispensable culinary treasure. Yazzy’s Taco Tuesdays, a tradition of flavor, love, and generosity. Midnight’s basura-tossing ritual, a secret rendezvous with the night.

Laughter and hearty hugs, the joy of Yazzy’s friends filling this space, now echo in the quiet. Food and friendships have grown in this place. Issa’s quest for peace from her tormentor while making scrambled eggs with tears in her eyes, a shared search for serenity within the #303 walls.

Leftover stew chicken and basmati rice for breakfast. A warm naan and a scoop of rum & raisin ice cream – a blend of spice, ice, and morning light.

All these once commonplace little things now seem monumental, threatening to vanish in time’s rearview mirror. Poor choices may have paved this road, but regret is a poor traveling companion. The sadness, the gaping saudade, defies description, a hollow in the soul that echoes with the question: Is this the shape of loss, or is it but the shadow of life’s impermanence, of life’s inevitable last heartbeat?

#303, you’ve been more than just a number, more than a place. You’ve been a chapter in my book, a verse in my life’s song. I leave you with a heart heavy with goodbye but eyes forward, reluctantly, seeking the light of new dawns and the promise they hold.