At the end of January, I moved out of my apartment. Not forever. The lease was a year-long. A long year-long.I left behind my pale green velvet chairs, my wall of books, my lucky fish that started life as a piece of driftwood before a man in Bathurst rounded the edges into fins and a tail.I left my collection of CDs – the Beatles and Leonard Cohen and Nigel Kennedy playing Bach with the Berlin Philharmonic, and my old wind up radio that was a gift from a nice man I used to know. My white 1000 thread count cotton sheets, my raggedy old Kelim, a gift to my 23-year-old self with my first three paychecks. My Mexican pots with their blue and ochre and yellow flower patterns in which grew spiky cacti. My gold Buddha, my stone Buddha, my ceramic Buddha, my wooden Buddha, my Thai spirit house with a tiny carved Burmese Buddha.I left behind the portrait of me that my then husband Francois had painted of me, that he put on an easel covered with an old towel that he whipped off with a flouris...
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