Another place left behind. Moving always takes time, and this one took a lot of time, and much of that was compressed into a short period.

There was no final walk through Croydon Park. There was no exploration of what was around. It was just a slog, and by the time I was done, I wanted to be gone. Really just done with it all.

I lived in Croydon Park for a little over six years, and the second place was for two of them.

I’m not sure which day I moved out right now. I think it was the 17th of May. Maybe the 18th. It doesn’t matter, really. It was a hard day of work among many days of hard work. All of it went by slow and fast at the same time, and I had time to reflect and think about leaving the area, but I didn’t have the time at all.

I thought I’d have more words about this but I don’t. Clearing stuff out of the house continued for a few days after, then I handed over the keys. After my ex was done, realistically getting the last of the house cleared out wasn’t my responsibility. It was mostly her rubbish she couldn’t or wouldn’t take, but I wanted to make sure she got the bond back and I didn’t want it to become my responsibility. So the last load was mainly rubbish. And then it was done.

As said, there was no final walk through Croydon Park. No reflection about the time in the house. I have some good memories and a lot of bad, and I was tired by the end of it all. But I want to go back. I want to do that final walk, and I hope I get around to doing it. But maybe the moment has passed. I don’t know.

As with many things, a property becomes more than its materials and design. It gains meaning over time, and eventually it becomes meaningless once people move on. In that house, my ex and I dealt with a housemate that wouldn’t carry their weight, and then our relationship fell apart. But there were good times. I felt there were more bad than good, and I think of that house and am kind of glad I’m out. At the same time, I miss it. It was home, but it no longer is. And that’s the way it goes sometimes.