Sanctuary (Patreon)

I had the opportunity to flee my apartment and go live with my teammate and confidante. This is the first place that has felt like home to me since my childhood home, and since then, I've fought for it, trying to build community, hoping to unionize, even returning after it got condemned. But with such an opportunity, I consider, and there is a lot to consider.

Of all the chore wars, the most demanding, dangerous weekly battle is against the relentlessly filling laundry basket, particularly during cold, icy months. Dread settles into my stomach when I gear up for the cold winter waiting for me. Winter is coming...as are the looming days of lugging a slightly too big, slightly too heavy, laundry basket down blocks, just to barely make it to the matt, collapsing one I make it to the machine, and listening with relief to the plink, plink, plink as my shaking, aching fingers push cold coins rhythmically into their slot. The pain in my stinging fingers could be replaced by dumping my basket into the home washer, never having had to gear up and leave the warmth of a new home. Considering the practical, this is one of the many battles I have - not to mention navigating tenants wanting to call the cops on unhoused folk seeking shelter and the weatherizing and other safekeeping of an old, crumbling building that the landlord doesn't care to upgrade, let alone properly maintain.

There's the hope of sharing foods and snacks with loved ones beckoning me towards the move. Kids and adult alike to share my food with, learning their preferences for further inspiration, these things bring me fresh inspiration for new creative cooking. Fresh, straight from the pot mint chocolate protein shakes to cool us, colorful, spicy, steaming chilis to keep us warm, food memories to keep us satisfied. I hunger for close company and mornings I sneak past still snoozing kids to start my morning.

I hunger for a return to nights of staying up chatting and laughing with a witty, challenging woman. A muse, she provokes a pouring of new ideas that I'd write down, if not for being to captivated by her next thought. I chase this, and she provides it, then sharply swerves into a silliness that breaks that tension and leaves me in stitches. My time living there, those nights were approaching the feeling of home I've sought and tried building every temporary place I've been. My mind keeps turning even when I regretfully tell her for the third time I must go, it's far past my bedtime. I always wish I could stay later.

I feel I'm not done here. Ms. Violet (name changed for privacy) needs a hip replacement in the next year. I'm still tied up making sure gamer boy doesn't loose this home that has alleviated him from his homelessness. Since I've arrived here, I've been the welcoming committee for our new neighbors. New tenants are filling the slowly uncondemned units, and I don't want to leave the pieces of our shattered community without some being glued back together. Would the next person be here to do these unfinished things? Would they know to bring the packages inside the building, would they bring Ms. Violet soup, and foster community in this quiet, sometimes sad building?

No, I'm not done here. It may be a year and a half I need, or two and a half, but I'm not done here.