From my balcony, I can see a fragment of life in the city. Any city, really, mine just happens to be Toronto. Leaning over the railing, raspberry ginger cider in hand, I watch as people mill about, living their lives. Couples walking hand in hand, carrying bags of produce from one of the markets around here. Another couple, gleefully decked out in their rainbowiest of rainbow attire – so delightful. And yet another couple, the woman very pregnant, shuffling up the sidewalk, her leaning into him for support, him bracing her arm and back as if that’s his only purpose on this earth.
A father and son walking their beautiful (and very large!) husky, three little kids, probably siblings, racing each other on their scooters down the middle of the almost-empty street. I think the father/son/husky family live in my building – I don’t forget a pup’s face as beautiful as that one. There are cars coming and going, of course, but at a much slower frequency than usual. Although, I must say, I’m losing my frame of reference for what ‘usual’ actually is – or was.
There’s a slight breeze, just enough to dance with the leaves on the trees and to make my balcony floor come to life with patterns of light and shadow, suggesting a play being acted by invisible marionettes. My big spider plant, at first greedily sunbathing in the sun’s generous warmth, is now wrapped in the coolness of its shade. The smell of burgers on a grill waft up to me from someone else’s balcony from below, instantly making me long for BBQs with friends and family, and bonfires. I love a good bonfire. I feel homesick for it.
In the slow-motion bustle of my once-animated street, I can still hear the whispers of our stories, it’s just more subdued now and somehow – more telling. People dutifully wear their masks, or don’t, making quite a comical effort to distance themselves when passing each other on the sidewalk. I know; I almost face-planted the other day trying to social distance from a very tiny elderly woman with her very tiny dog.
There is some commerce happening around here, but not much. There are more people than there are places to go. The Wine Rack, just around the corner from me is open and back to full operating hours after a brief closure earlier in the year – thank goodness! It’s a good thing I was already all about cheap Canadian wine, so it’s not an adjustment for me. The number of eggplant-y plum-coloured plastic bags I see dangling from peoples’ hands has seen a significant spike in recent months.
I close my eyes and listen. The sounds of my street, my neighbourhood, my city.
It’s quiet uptown.
It’s a Saturday night in mid- June, and I’m standing on my balcony, luxuriating in the sun’s last appearance for the day. I welcome it to warm my face and my chest, reminding me that I’m here.
I. Am. Here. We are here.
Life goes on. There is still uncertainty, and fear, but inevitably, we all seem to just go on. It may be a little faint, but I can still feel the pulse of my city. I saw the sun rise this morning, and I get to see it go down tonight. The colours are dumbfounding. And, even though the monstrosity of a condo building directly across the street from me blocks a big portion of ‘my’ sky, I still get to have the sun greet me and bid me adieu. There’s a certain beauty to that, I think, like bookends. I like the bookendedness of it.
I’m going to savor these moments on my balcony, with my neighbours, even if they don’t know they’re sharing anything with me. I must capitalize on this perfect weather window while I can. Soon it will be too hot to spend much time out there. I hope not (but who am I kidding?).
I vow to continue to watch and witness as my neighbourhood, my city, gets on with it. I’ll take notice of the couples and families and best friends and drunk buddies who traverse my outdoors, albeit, more distanced and conscientiously than before. I vow to close my eyes and soak up the sun’s last drops of gold when I can, and just breathe.
I’ll breathe in and I’ll breathe out and in and out. And comforted by the sounds and scents and pulse of my home, eventually, I’ll be able to breathe in and out without even thinking about it.
2 thoughts on “From my balcony”
This is lovely.
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Thank you, Kerry! High praise indeed 🙂