I remember the first few times this happened, the noise of kids playing on a nice day drew everyone from our homes, desperate for some social time in the early days of social distancing when two weeks inside our homes felt like an impossible feat. Now it’s just a part of life, we hear our neighbors and come outside to say hi.
As my neighbor began raking up the spiky brown “monkey balls” that fall all around our communal backyard, I remembered last year when we all raked them up so the kids would be able to play without every trip or fall ending in spike-induced tears, and dogs could play without sudden limps from spikes between paw pads. “Remember when we bought these rakes last year? The condo association should reimburse us for this upkeep.” We all laughed.
Even good memories from this time last year are all tied up in a surreal cloud. I find myself feeling weird on these nice days, remembering the long walks last March that kept me sane in such uncertain times. The days when I sat on my porch in a haze, hoping the sun and fresh air might make me feel less anxious for a moment.
I wonder if early Spring will always have this aftertaste of collective trauma, or if next year we’ll be remembering how in 2021, the fog lifted.