I arrived beneath grey skies and the oppressively brutal cold of a New England February, outwardly confident, but inside torn apart by trauma, shame and doubt. My hands intermittently shook, not from the cold, but as an outward reflection of the turmoil I had endured over the previous weeks.

Snow coated the ground, and biting wind chilled to the bone. It felt as though I had entered a winter of the soul.

My coat, already slightly too large, now hung loosely from my shoulders, in testament to the more than twenty pounds I had lost since the beginning of the year after life for me began to unravel; as the woman I loved seemed to disappear behind someone I no longer recognized. Hateful, disrespectful, directing all of her negative energy in my direction. Somehow I had become the fall guy for all the tragedy that had recently consumed her and her family.

Enjoying the respite of warmth that greeted me, I surveyed the high-ceilinged lobby and Great Room, with its modern architecture, plush seating and welcoming fireplace. The rental agent greeted me warmly and rapidly impressed me with the thoroughness of her presentation and her ability to answer all of my many questions.

Viewed from outside, it was a pleasant enough, but otherwise generic new building, like so many others that had sprung over the past few years as a construction boom took hold, offering slightly more affordable rents than could be found in the major metropolitan center to the east.

The site sat hard against the Interstate that sliced through the centre of the city, beside the restaurant district where many of the city’s better-known restaurants now stand. A block from the commuter rail, offering convenience, variety and life.

The site carried a rich history. Only a few years earlier, a church had stood on this ground. Once proudly a central hub of the Italian community, it presented an odd and slightly sad sight in later years, as its tower seemed almost an arm’s length from the adjacent Interstate flyover, its façade gradually crumbling.

Our Lady of the Highway.

Although narrowly escaping the urban renewal frenzy of the ‘Sixties, what the developers failed to destroy, the highway eventually accomplished. Toxic fumes gradually ate away the stone, creating a danger for those below. Eventually, it was condemned and torn down.

It has occurred to me since that, as a boy, my father-in-law most probably worshipped at this church. A place where lives were welcomed, celebrated and mourned. Long before I arrived, this had already been a place of transition: of joy and grief, of beginnings and endings. I simply became the next chapter in its history.

As the rental agent took me on the tour, I quickly determined that the amenities were second to none among the competing buildings that I had already visited. Coworking spaces lined each side of the lobby: eight private offices, a communal boardroom table, all available without charge. The gym, complete with Peloton bikes, rivalled many commercial facilities. This was no dark, windowless room tucked away in a basement. Flooded with natural light and cooled by enormous ceiling fans, it invited you to linger rather than simply exercise.

The saltwater pool, and community fire pits offered the promise of rest and restoration in the summertime, so necessary for my on-edge nervous system. Barbecue facilites, oversized outdoor chess set, TVs everywhere, including outdoors. The rooftop terrace presented another option for sun, socializing, and viewing of summertime fireworks …the only drawback being its view towards her office building.

The apartments themselves were pleasant, modern and unobjectionable, designed to appeal to the maximum upwardly mobile demographic.

Greige walls.

Dark floors.

Pale timber cabinetry.

Stainless steel appliances.

Balcony overlooking the pool.

An unremarkable apartment in an unremarkable city, perhaps, but for me, as I signed the rental agreement, it represented something far more: a clean slate onto which to write a new life. A place to grow. A place to call my own…

…yet it carried odd echoes of the influences that had shaped the previous fifteen years of my life… the relative proximity to her office… the proximity to her father’s childhood neighborhood… and the ground on which he worshipped. In retrospect, it all feels very odd. But then again, my life has been anything but normal these past months.

Perhaps there are no truly clean slates. We simply write over what came before, hoping the old words eventually fade.