This is my new balcony. We moved on Friday…again…because our landlady decided to unexpectedly terminate our lease and sell the house and we had to find a new place to live in the middle of a pandemic. But we did. Now we’re all moved in and I really like it here. Especially like the balcony. I live on the sixth floor, with no others above me, so it’s just me and the sky and the view of my city. The noises from below are muted and easy to tune out, easy to forget they’re there at all. If I leave my phone inside and turn my gaze up to the clear blue sky, I can almost believe that life is normal. That the scents of the flowers, the fresh, clear air, and the abundant greenery is just a regular spring like any other year. When I watch my neighbors on their balconies; the next-door kid eating ice cream and getting it all over her face, the muscular guy lying on his balcony sun-bathing, the woman one floor down tending her tomato plants, or the couple at the far end of the house having a late night dinner with wine, everything feels just like usual.

For a moment, everything is normal.

Until I go back inside, pick up my phone, and scroll through Instagram. Until black square after black square reminds me that nothing is normal and that when you thought 2020 couldn’t get worse, it did. And I put my phone down again and wish I’d just stayed out on my balcony with the blue sky above my head and snippets of my neighbors’ lives playing out in front of my eyes. Pretending that life is normal. If only for another minute.