I'm about to leave San Francisco and I love my rickety old apartment. Write it a tribute and make it poetic!

To my San Francisco apartment,

I’ll miss how you rumble in the wind. How I can hear my partner on a call even with two doors closed in between us. Your front staircase, which makes every visitor feel like they’ve been transported back in time to a 1980s Palm Beach condo. The garbage trucks waking us up on Friday morning. The way your bathroom door never fully closes — much to the dismay of our guests — and the countless post-surfing wetsuits hanging from the never-used bath. The view from your back porch and the magical sunsets and sunrises we witnessed. 

When we were locked down to slow the spread of COVID-19, I banged on your screen door every evening at 8pm, pretending I was a percussionist, waving at my elderly neighbors and joining in the collective shouts to show our first responders gratitude. I sat outside on the small patch of grass we called your backyard and cried when the stress was too much. After all these years, my tears are likely soaked into your beige walls and carpet, which we haphazardly plastered with frames and discounted rugs from the Pottery Barn warehouse. 

And how could I forgot our downstairs neighbors, who slowly warmed to us and then loudly went through a divorce? Or our friendly landlord, who gifted us cookies and wine every holiday season, and never once increased our rent — even offering to lower it to tempt us to stay when we gave our notice?

You gave us a home and sheltered us through it all. You provided four walls within which we could blast music, fight off anxiety attacks, lazily binge tv shows, host game nights and late nights with friends, experience earthquakes and hide away from the world while still experiencing the beauty around us. 

For that, I will be forever grateful.