The View from the Balcony

The new house wasn't a house. It was a second-floor walk-up apartment with a skinny red door that faced the alley, thin walls, and a neighbor who just had a baby. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Six windows. A half-kitchen with a gas stove and a smelly fridge. And, my favorite, a hidden balcony that could only be accessed by the living room window.

Before we moved, I had spent hours imagining how I would feel in the new house, how I would decorate my new room. It would be small, so I pictured a cozy, warm-lit, vintage-inspired safe haven where I would spend my weekends reading and writing. I'd line succulents on the window sill, string fairy lights up around the ceiling, plaster posters and photos all over my walls, and get new bedding just for the occasion. Maybe I'd set up a small desk by the window, so I could people watch while I pretended to do my homework.

But we'd been there two weeks already, and all I had managed to do was put together my bed frame (by myself!) and drag my old Sleeping Beauty comforter out of my duffle bag.

Even though I managed to make my bed, if Mom was gone, I wasn’t sleeping. There was the issue of the door lock: the locks were busted, and Mom hadn’t had time to fix it yet because she was working overtime shifts to cover the cost of the security deposit. So I felt the need to be ever-vigilant. I’d wake up in a panic, throwing the blankets off like they were an intruder suffocating me. I’d gasp for air, trying to figure out where I was. Sometimes I’d wake up to the baby crying through the wall, the mother offering gentle, soothing hushes.

Once my heart stopped pounding enough for me to do my grounding exercises, I'd lay back down and watch the yellow streetlight filter in through my blinds, my faded pink blanket pressed to my nose so I could breathe in the old house smell that lingered. If I stared at the window or the streetlights or the purple-grey walls too long I'd get this far-away feeling in my stomach like I was laying in a hotel room or I woke up at a sleepover at a friends house who didn't really want me there, and wouldn't be able to fall back asleep.

On this particular twilight I was out on the balcony because I couldn’t sleep, which meant I was thinking, which meant I was crying again. The last fading rays of daylight filtered orange through the rusted metal guardrail I was slouched against, and my legs itched despite the very plush blanket I’d laid down to cover the splinters (sorry, Mom). I liked to sit out there and feel sorry for myself, hidden in plain sight. That evening, I was crying because I missed my old home.

I missed the way it felt to lie in bed on Sunday mornings, the breeze coming in through open windows, making the origami cranes I’d strung up flutter. I missed the dandelion yellow curtains, the creaky radiator, and how my room was close enough to the kitchen to smell French toast, sausage links, and burnt bagels with chive and onion cream cheese. Dad, squeezing orange juice by hand as he rewatched Stand By Me for the billionth time.

But mostly, I missed Dad.

As I was treading the thought-whirlpool, the sun finally set and the cold began to waft in. I grabbed Mom’s blanket and was about to go inside when I heard cheering down the street.

"Momma, look look! Momma I'm doing it, do you see!"

"Yes! Good job honey!"

I leaned over the rail, the cold metal biting into my chest. A family of three turned the corner onto my street: Mom, Dad, and a little boy. The dad ran closely behind the blond kid, who was beaming as he pedaled faster and faster. The front wheel swayed left and right as he struggled to keep the handlebars straight. The mom fast-walked behind, her hand over her heart, a huge smile on her face. From my perch I watched them waddle their way down the street and turn the corner, their laughs echoing off of the pavement.

I stood there, listening to my breath as a melancholy flower bloomed in my chest. I wrapped the blanket tighter around me and sat back down, staring at the spot where they turned. A mental movie played in my head: Dad and me at the BMX track, where he taught me how to ride without training wheels for the first time. Him, running beside me in flip-flops, cheeks red from exertion, his hand on my back. Me, on my electric green bike, my purple helmet, my sparkly light-up Skechers.

He let go before I realized it. I pedaled forward, wobbling, screaming that I wasn’t ready, until I realized I was already doing it. Riding, on my own. He just smiled, hands on his knees, out of breath and proud.

That part was looping in my head: the letting go. The quiet, gentle faith he had in me that I could stay upright. That I could swim out of the current, even if it felt like I was drowning.

Down below, the cheers had faded. The streetlights flicked on. The movie in my head had ended, but it felt like Dad was right beside me.

I smiled, and the flower in my chest curled its petals inward for the night. Then I went to my room to unpack my boxes.