WITH THIS, I LEAVE YOU

Summer is the worst time to move out of St. Louis. The summertime is when this city truly thrives. I have lived here for nearly eight summers now, enough time to make some final observations before I part from the 314. In the winter, you see less people. The streets are quieter, you don’t even get to hear the mourning doves nostalgically humming outside your window. There’s a fundamental difference, a change in the seasons also means a change of pace, a change of energy. As soon as summer ends, there’s a type of melancholy hanging in the air that just makes it easier to walk away. If I were to move out during the winter, I won’t be reminded of the life I built here. I wouldn’t remember the late and humid nights bar hopping in the Grove, picnics near the Turkish Pavillion, the smell of barbecue wafting through Ballpark Village, the endless opportunities to increase my dopamine levels.

This city becomes a corpse come December. The ghosts of what once was stay stagnant, too tired to haunt the pathways that cut through St. Louis. Everything just pauses, waiting to continue until spring is once again upon us. We leave our houses for work and for school and that’s it. Even going out feels like a chore, having to endure the stinging cold biting at our flesh and for what? A round of lemon drop shots? The tulips have died, the cherry blossoms have fallen, and we bitterly maintain our routines until the golden rays of sun have kissed the pavements once more.

We’re in the spring now, which won’t take long to transition into summer – due to the impatience of these Missouri seasons. Even now in the spring, I can feel life eagerly pumping back into this city. The corpse that resided in the winter is sewing back up its sinews in order to stretch in the warmth of sun. Its eyes, long closed between the months of November and March, open in time with the blooming tulips. The unspoken sorrow that flooded the streets has now fallen upon me, as I remember what it is I am leaving behind.

During the summer, I will be forced to remember the things I love about this city. This city which is often so sadly misunderstood. They say this city is dying, but that’s just not true. The only ones who think this city is dying are the ones who have never lived here to begin with. St. Louis is kept alive by the love of its people. The longer I stayed here, the more I had come to admire its determination to remain loved. No one loves this city more than the people who inhabit it. I am reminded of it every time we are blessed with summer for another portion of the year. Yet as soon as the leaves fall from the branches, with it come those reminders. It’s a different place here in the winter, the memories become dormant and the life breathed into it quickly dies.

I have no choice but to leave during the summer, and I fear that that’s the universe’s way of testing me. She knows that if I don’t leave now, I’ll never leave. That’s the curse of this city, to those who dare to disagree with me. Once you have planted your roots here it’s hard to rip them free. But I have outgrown my pot, and I need to feel new soil. No longer will I smell the tulips, which everyone knows are only special if you see them in springtime St. Louis. No longer will I mindlessly dance to the terrible music played by the DJs at Rehab in the Grove. No longer will I get to enjoy the luxuries of the zoo, which is free. No longer, no longer. Consider this a eulogy, for the place I mourn but have not yet left. I leave behind my memories, for what is a home if not its memories?

Maida Dippel is a freelance author based in St. Louis. She’s currently in pursuit of achieving a BA in English/Creative Writing.