Walking back from the train tonight, it finally feels like fall is on the way. The air is just that much less humid; the sun doesn’t hit quite so hard. There’s a chill in the breeze that makes me wish I’d tucked in my jacket, that long-forgotten companion.

My mail, of course, has been telling me this for weeks. Car tag renewals. Tax assessments due. Insurance statements. Dear Magda, you have lived in the commonwealth coming up three years. Congratulations! Please pay. I’ve mostly pushed them to the side; “October’s in forever!” I’d say, panting, reaching out to crank up the air.

Here on my desk, however, is the penultimate: the lease. Due back tomorrow.

I have renewed it for a six-month term.  I will be here, guaranteed, through April 30, 2010.  Past that point? Uncertain.

Preceding this signature was a would-be argument, a “when will we be together”-fueled feistiness; a “do you or do you not see us together?,” triggered by hormones (in the least degree), raw love (in the highest degree), and the emotion of uncertainty (most of all).  When it all settled out, we said six months.

I called my mom over the weekend.  “I’m thinking six months,” I said.  Saieth she: “That sounds about right.”  MOM. HELLO. This is your oldest daughter, your first-born child; you’re going to agree to this whole “screw my career, and my roots; this is real love” campaign?  And wait, what’s that, you’re a donor, too?  Well.  Okay then.   Way to throw me for a loop. (seriously, there I was ready to defend myself when … wait.  You support this?  You think this is a good idea? mmmmm-kay…)

Do I want to be with him? Yes.  Do I want that to be soon? Absolutely, especially on days like today,  days where I’m easily reminded of precisely why the second-most popular search term leading to this blog–after those savvy travelers googling “quart-sized ziploc”–is “my job makes me want to kill myself,” else a close variant thereof.  Indeed! Can’t offer much more than commiseration, I’m afraid; alas, though, YES.

The idea of being a New Yorker come the spring is outrageously romantic.  That’s where I am with it, though; it’s still an idea.  I’m living a fairy tale in so many ways, but something about my inked signature on this paper is hauntingly permanent.  April.  I could well change plans, renew again, or go month-to-month, as extortionist as those rates are. Then again, I could be headed north, singing a “suck it” tune in the direction of my boss’ office, and moving on to brand new things all our own.  (It all just seems so fast, though; even four months ago, I’d never have considered giving up this place, not to mention packing my life into boxes and moving it across state lines).

I feel a bit like Cinderella, half way through, the third or fourth time you read it; you know she’s got a happy ending coming if she can just scrub enough floors to get from page to page.  There’s something deeply satisfying about that promise, but just knowing it isn’t enough: Prince or no price, her hands are still in that bucket for at least this page and probably the next, and she’s likely breathing in lye; she’ll get there, but that’s not to say it’s not a struggle.  It’s coming, and soon.  I can see it, and planning for it’s good; I feel like I know this ending, but it’s not mine yet.

So I have this lease here. This apartment never was going to be forever, this life here never was forever, and six  months is just a signature at this point.  It doesn’t mean anything permanent.  It represents something, though; something tangible.  It’s good, but I’m a bit scared as well.  (!HA.  Okay, a lot scared, when I really sit down and think about it.  Me? Moving in the spring? Come again?).

I’m going to eye it over one more time, kiss it goodbye, and trot it on downstairs; then celebrate, with a little glass of porto.  To new opportunities, taking chances, and new possibilities: to risks and love and trust and faith.  cheers cheers.