October 8, 2019:

It was disquieting when we moved. It had been her lifelong fantasy: Own my own home. Not mine, and, in leaving our apartment of 20 years I felt uprooted.

That began a semi-conscious sense of stress which culminated in breakdown a year later. I felt uprooted and unsafe. That I no longer had a shelter to retreat to if necessary.

I still dream of being there. It's as it was, or it's empty, or it's me living there again at my current age. Returning to the last place where I felt at home. In reality the change of decades would feel dramatically more exilic. Rubbing my nose in all the deaths, hers especially, but also my best friend and many others.

It would be empty except for ghosts. Unhealthy. I'd do it today if I had the money.