A couple of days ago I was sitting on the balcony (as usual) having a coffee and looking at infinity, when I realized that in all the houses I have lived in there have been a balcony. It was a kind of requirement when I was looking for a house, but here it was a coincidence. It has always seemed to me the perfect place to draw, to have a conversation, to mend a pair of pants or just to be.
A lot of things come into my balcony. There are cats that use it as a bathroom, as well as ants that carry dead butterflies back and forth. Smells of incense enter through offerings or of plastic burned by a neighbor. Of course airplanes enter, or rather their lights that camouflage themselves among the immensity of the night so that you can look at them and imagine where they will go or where they come from. There are also children who greet you enthusiastically from below. From outside, conversations from the house across the street or the repetitive chants of the street vendors enter.
But if I stop to think what comes in most are memories. The memory of the first nights getting to know each other, the occasional cry, sometimes in company, sometimes in solitude, lots of laughter, confessions, secrets, games, songs in loops, tropical storms, shared silences…
Many people enter my balcony, some of them through the telephone screen, to be able to show them once again how beautiful the door is while I tell them the latest exploits of my day to day life. Others do it in physical form, and these are the ones that generate those memories that my balcony is full of.
And every day the sun comes in to wake me up or give me five more minutes before this experience becomes another memory that keeps my balcony.