LOFT 35

Amita: Amita is a female name of Indian, Hebrew, and Italian origin.

The name means “infinite, boundless” in Sanskrit,

and “truth” in Hebrew.

1

The sun pushes through the cracks of the shutters like every sunrise prior, but on this particular morning, the specks of gold burn my skin. Every sharp stab reminds me of the times I opened my eyes to my favorite fresh pressed mango juice; scrambled eggs with blood oranges cut in tiny cubes - because I like them that way - and the always perfect red rose delicately placed beside the utensils that he would assemble for me. From the very start of our relationship, he knew how to make me smile. All I want is to make you happy he used to tell me. Every inch of the loft contained infinite memories of him. Everywhere I look, I see him. In the hardly noticeable light grey paint stains on the bedroom floor from the first week, we had moved it to the lovely plants by the window growing uncontrollably since he left us. Today was day one fifty-two since he’d passed, his five-month anniversary, and I was ready for change. I needed change, even if it took every fiber of my being to get out of the sheets we had chosen together while traveling to Milan last summer. I turned to look at the nightstand, I stared at his beautiful smile immortalized in the small wooden frame my grandma had gifted me many years ago. We had just celebrated our 1 year anniversary in that photograph; we had hiked to the top of Cheam Peak, he told me he loved me and held me tightly in his arms as our new friends took pictures of us. And for a moment, I could feel the heat of his breath graze my left cheek as though I were still at the top of the mountain wrapped in his arms. It had taken us weeks to pack for our hike and it was our first of many but this trail was our most treasured one of all. It was our first and we had clearly overpacked for such a short hike. The trail had beautiful purple flowers blooming, the sun shined through the trees creating stunning shadows. It feels as though we’re in a deleted scene from The Sound of Music, should we start singing? I remember him asking me. He sang a song from the film and held my hand as he started to run in the grass.

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Amita finally decides to get up. It was enough torture for the time being. She puts on her favourite leggings, an oversized 70s horror movie tee and her favourite broken in white sneakers. She pulls her curly hair up into a ponytail and splashes water onto her face. The cool water warms her soul. She looks at her sunken eyes in the mirror and doesn’t recognize herself. She was optimistic concerning this new chapter in her life and the new year was a simple arm’s reach away. The new home she recently purchased was in an area of the city that she really liked but didn’t know much of. She had gotten a very good deal on the property since the old couple selling felt as though she had a gentle soul and were compassionate towards her loss. She puts on her sunglasses and throws on her red jacket to help brave the crisp winter air. It was late December but it felt like early autumn in Boston. As she drives to the final destination, she puts on her audiobook of Carrie by Stephen King. She looks out the window to discover what is near her new home. There are many quaint coffee shops, some vintage stores, a flower shop, a library and a few other stores with no names that seemed to be still closed. Leaves were no more and a simple line of snow hid in the cracks of the city sidewalks. It must have been still too early for the locals in view of the fact there was nobody roaming the streets yet. As she parks she looks at the large building. It was massive and had a Neo-Gothic charm. It was a historic building that used to be part of an all boys private school in the 1920s. They had shut it down in the 1950s and it was left abandoned for over two decades. A big shot named Jesse Prozisku decided to buy and restore the school into apartments in the early 80s. Prozisku was a New York tycoon who had grown up in Boston as a child. He knew of the school and hated the idea that the city would tear it down instead of fixing it. He offered a large sum and was renovating after only a few weeks of his offer. When Prozisku passed away his son took over the property and in 2010 Jessy Jr had renovated all the properties to bring life and interest to new buyers. The 80s aesthetic was not everyones cup of tea and Jessy Jr knew that. She arrives at the condo complex, her broker is standing right at the front door with coffee and a bag. Elise was such a sweetheart -for a broker that is- she really did seem to care about her client and finding Amita a safe haven to start anew. Amita walks up to Elise and gives her a big hug. She thanks Elise for her support, advice and the delicious coffee she always brought. Elise and coffee always came hand in hand. She glances at the bag in her left hand and wonders what is in it. After you, Elise says to her, as she pushes open the entrance door to the building. Behind the heavy doors lies a large hall with massive windows generating stunning shadows on the original restored wooden floors. The property had all its original charm with a modern twist. The Prozisku family really knew how to cherish the history of a building. They walk up the staircase and down the cream coloured halls towards her new beginning.

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My hand shakes as I slowly unlock the door. A breeze cools the open space as I step in. Furniture and boxes are placed along the right side of the room. My condo used to be the art room. Elise explained to me that the open concept was to keep the integrity of the building and to be honest, I loved the idea of living in one large space. It gives a certain air of freedom being able to just simply walk from one room to another without walls closing in the separate rooms. My apartment is one of the smaller sized condos we have seen but it has everything I need and want. I cannot wait to unbox my brand new life. I take a gulp of my perfect coffee as I look at my brand new apartment. It’s breathtaking. Elise moves quickly towards the left side of the room to the kitchen area and puts her coffee and the mystery bag down on the marble island. She calls me over. This is for your new home, she says as she hands me the gift. I gently place the bag beside me on the stool. I put my hand inside and feel a very silky fabric. I hold it up to my face; it smells of lavender and sage. It has emerald, deep burgundy, and mauve throughout with specs of gold making a beautiful rainbow of colors. It’s beautiful, I tell her as I pick up the scarf. It’s just as soft as it is stunning. It’s custom made, she says, my cousin works in a Morrocan shop where the owner is an old Indian woman who grew up in Morocco and she makes all the clothing and scarves. She tells me that this lady is very spiritual and asks about the person who will be receiving the gift and creates a scarf for them that expresses their personality and soul through colors. I could feel that this scarf was made with love and attention. There is something else, she says, pointing at the gift bag. I reach down into the bag and feel something hard. Maybe wood. I take a box out and gently place it on the counter. I unlock the clasp and open it to see a bundle of dried sage, different types of crystals, a rolled-up paper, a few candles, a bag with white rocky powder resembling maybe salt, a decorative small plate, and a tiny antique jewelry box. The box is to cleanse your home, she tells me. I go around the counter and give her a hug and thank her. She really did go the extra mile for her clients. Her gifts were thoughtful and personal as well. It was quite moving. She pulled the box towards us and took out the vintage jewelry box. My mother has a jewelry shop and she is known for possessing very old pieces, she says as she pulls out a beautiful pendant from the box, I thought this one might suit you. It is an 1810 French Napoleonic era gold leaf glass pendant, she explains, she bought it in an auction many years ago. I hold the pendant in my hand and look at its marvelous details. This is the most stunning piece of jewelry I have ever laid my eyes on.