All good things must come to an end.
It was nearly a dozen years ago I walked up this pretty street in the heart of Park Slope, holding the hands of two little boys, a scrawny 4 and 6 years old, my own heart filled with terror. Their mom and I had finally thrown in the towel and agreed I'd be the one to move out and find a new home. I'd moved plenty of times in my life. No fear there. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach was that I had no idea how to raise two children on my own. "Week on, week off." I get my boys back every other Sunday.
This was our home for their entire childhood. The KMB Club we called it. I figured it out and they grew up. Ben is now a freshman at college and Matty is a junior at high school in NYC. They're both taller than me and blessed with an ingrained sense of New York independence. When our apartment's usual coughs and hiccoughs became loud and unmanageable I decided it was time. We gave notice on the heels of a city water main break. Into our basement! There was not even time to find a new place. The decision was made. Pack up. Store. Move on.
The emotion of bidding farewell to home, hearth and childhood is palpable. Call it downsizing. Call it an adventure. We made our way once as three guys on a journey and we will again. 12 years ago we moved into 4 large rooms of a bone empty duplex. We leave a lot of memories behind. But we will move on.