Vincent Van Gogh “The Sea at Les Saintes” (1888)

A slow light enters through the cracked windows, white linen drapes hanging along the floor. They flicker in the soft Sunday breeze, long rectangular angles of light positioned against the birchwood floorboards. Strewn along the walls and windows are packed bags and suitcases. Littering the surfaces of the cabinets are books, opened mail, and spoons and a cast iron pan that will stay in position until the final day of inhabitance. Of being present in a home that was only a home for a year. There was always going to be an end date. 

She sits on the couch, taking in the four corners of the apartment and the large plants that have become the artwork. Arms crossed, she looks out through the window, dirty water marks left along the glass from the last week of rains, now baking in patterns along the view she has of the world. Of the reflection from the opposing building’s own windows. 

The world is already moving: the pitter patter of runner’s shoes along the asphalt, the rubber wheels of suitcases clicking against the sidewalks. Fresh bread odors emanate from the bodega on the corner, and she lifts her teacup to her lips, taking a long sip of the world. Remembering her dreams, she sees everything falling away. The walls were bare, the plants gone, the space silent and eerily echoey as if she never lived here at all. It was all just a mess of the space she knew she had to be in for the short time she temporarily stayed the city not her own. 

She leans back and pushes her hair behind her ears, following the strands down to their ends and twirling them around her left middle and index fingers. Maybe it is not worth thinking about the future, she thinks to herself, the buzz of airplanes vibrating overhead in the light brightening blue sky. 

Maybe I can just sit here awhile and not think about what comes next.

She slips a clip across her hair, tying back the top half, pressing her fingers into her temples, feeling the contours of her skin and cheekbones. She slows an inhale, closing her eyes, picturing the empty apartment from her dreams and feeling into her body. There was a heaviness, there was a sadness, an ambiguity combined with anxiety. It was nothing and everything. It was an all-encompassing centering of being here, but mentally gone. Mentally ready for something else without having a something else to worry about. 

She breathes out and opens her eyes. Picking up her cup once more, the heat against her nose, she breathes in and then exhales again against the surface of the warm liquid, watching it expand out in concentric circles. Dissipating. For now, maybe there can be something easy to slow into. For now, maybe there can be a sense of peace with the boxes, bags, and a disheveled living space. Perhaps this discomfort of not knowing what comes next can be met with a bit more appreciation for what is. This transfer of the body, erosion of the things that don’t matter, making space in a simplified way for the things that do.