"Goodbye to Rosie, the Queen of Corona"

Two and a half years ago, I walked into an apartment building on Corona Street, and I found a ~300 square foot slice of hardwood floored heaven. The rent was $900/month (plus utilities), and I told the woman showing me the apartment that I thought it was a steal. She replied that literally no one had ever said that about the space before. I explained I was moving from New York City, and then she got it. And then I signed a lease.

I don't know any other time in my life when I've been in such a small space and yet felt so free. This was my first apartment I wasn't sharing with anyone. I didn't have to share a bathroom or fridge space or a coat closet. Everything inside the apartment door marked with a gold #7 was mine. I felt like I struck gold and was now residing as the Queen of Corona (street).

There were definite quirks about the apartment though. I had only a dorm room style mini-fridge, no air conditioning, and one tiny closet for the whole apartment. There were two separate faucets in the bathroom--one for hot and one for cold--making washing your hands or face significantly more dramatic. I didn't have a dishwasher or a washer/dryer or a bathtub but I did have crown molding and built-in shelves and silver radiators that reminded me of Brooklyn. 

The first piece of furniture I brought into my new home was also the only piece of furniture I owned: a piano bench that I had bought at a flea market in the Upper West Side years before. The bench had cost $40 at the time, but it had made 3 moves to all of my NYC apartments, and I knew that it had to come to Denver too. It cost over $300 to UPS it from NY to CO (*pause for gasp*), but I told myself that's why God gave us credit cards. After I got my keys to my new place for the first time, I placed the piano bench in the middle of the living room and sat on it, surrounded by nothing but afternoon sunlight and opportunity.  

The rest of my furniture and household items came gradually: 

• Plates, pots, and pans from the Goodwill
• A refinished dresser from a nice woman in Aravada, found through Craig's List
• A foam mattress from Ikea that was rolled up like a giant yoga mat
• A bookshelf from the dumpster in my alley, which I painted in my underwear because it was too hot for clothes that day
• A couch with a story that deserves an entirely separate post 

Rugs, artwork, and plants all came later--usually in concurrence with a bonus from work, birthday money, or sale. I bought a desk after surviving a hard break-up and a Vitamix blender after a promotion at work. The tiny space evolved into my sanctuary. It was what Virginia Woolf wrote about in "A Room of One's Own," that a woman must have her own space to create. And in this space I did.

I created meals and poems, both from scratch. I put things together and took things apart. I sewed curtains and wrapped presents and wrote letters. I read and I wrote. I drank sour beer and dreamt strange dreams. I loved.. loved... loved. And all of this happened in this little tucked away apartment on Corona Street that was just mine.

Though my time in this space has been just short of magic, it's time for me to move on and move out. 

I'm renouncing my crown and carefully packing up my things. I'm moving to a new address with a full sized refrigerator, a bath tub, and BD. I'm excited and I'm ready, but if I'm being honest, I'm also a little sad. Moving [on] is hard. 

I had a therapist once tell me, "You put a lot of meaning into the places and spaces of your life" and at the time I thought--well doesn't everyone?! But here I am writing a sappy blog post about an address I probably won't remember in 5 years, and now I think she was right. New meaning and new memories await me, await us, and my piano bench and I are ready for it (though "Queen of Cook" just doesn't have the same ring to it).