Oh, second home. We loved you so little that we never called you anything better than "our ghetto abode." If the Loft were magic dust, then you'd just be dust.
You weren't meant to be pretty; you were just one of our adjustment homes. A home with walls three stories up (high enough for only the best-in-shape burglars/murderers to break in). Two hard years. Two growing years. Two very hot years.
But really hot, like we were naked from May-November (stop giggling that you saw our naked bums, ghetto abode.)
From cockroaches and sights of domestic violence to the homeless guy in the dumpster that I hit when taking out my trash. And to the scary Smiths down the street, and the complex across whose fire alarms went off once a month. Even though I guarantee we will never live that close to the Strip again, you did have one of the prettiest views from Harmon Ave.
You were the home to our hardest two years, with salty tears staining the carpet instead of baby drool. Anxiety was the oblivious friend who wouldn't leave our couch when we wanted to go to bed.
As excited as we are to get out of your weird area, we will always miss our safe and comfortable home.
You were a season of life. But seasons never change overnight, and our burdens don't disappear when the keys get turned in. Our next house will carry over our burdens, like how Cafe Rio points carry over if you don't spend all $10 of your free meal. We will be introduced to new problems and situations, and those walls will learn to hold us in.
You were changes and trials.
You were memories and adjustments.
You were our hardest home,
but still a home.
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