Tuesday, April 7 was a picturesque spring day in Bethlehem, with temperatures reaching nearly 70 degrees under sunny skies. The dreary brown of the winter season was quickly becoming replaced by green grass, budding trees and pastels of blooming flowers. Seemingly in any other year, this would have seemed like a perfect day; the type of day about which countless poems and songs have been written. In 2020, however, with the COVID-19 pandemic spreading exponentially throughout the Lehigh Valley and new cases and deaths from the deadly virus increasing with every daily report from the Pennsylvania Department of Health, this gorgeous spring day felt almost eerie in its normalcy.

It had been over a month since I’d last seen my parents. As they still reside in my childhood home in Easton’s South Side, I’ve been able to make it an almost weekly occurrence to make the short drive down Freemansburg Avenue to visit them since I moved to Bethlehem nearly five years ago. But, Governor Wolf’s stay-at-home order in place, as well as a general sense of uncertainty regarding the spread of COVID-19, and taking my parents’ age into consideration, I had ceased my weekly visits and for the last month; daily phone calls and the occasional video chat have had to suffice. I’ve been out of full-time work since mid-March, with my employer moving to a skeleton crew of voluntary staff. Like so many other Americans who have found themselves suddenly with a wealth of extra time and nowhere to go, I have grown restless and in mourning of the indefinitely postponed social routines which I had come to take for granted.

Early that morning, I had received a message from my distraught mother letting me know that her childhood best friend of over 50 years was in the Intensive Care Unit in a hospital in Florida with pneumonia, awaiting results from her COVID-19 test. Her friend has been fighting chronic health conditions for over a decade and several years ago, as she was fighting a debilitating bout of gastroparesis, my mother was able to go to a travel agent on a Tuesday and be on a flight by Thursday to be by her friend’s side. This was obviously not going to be an option this time around, and not being able to be there for her best friend in a time of need was weighing heavy on my mom’s heart.

As the morning progressed, I thought that there must be a way to be able to safely visit with my parents, particularly in light of my mom’s emotional distress. Hopefully, a surprise meeting with her only child would lift her spirits - and if I’m being honest, mine as well. I then had a discussion with my partner and our housemates (one of whom is currently working as a pediatric in-home care nurse with immunocompromised clients) regarding my decision to make the trek to Easton, the precautions that I would take, and the guarantee that under no circumstances would I defy social distancing guidelines issued by the Center for Disease Control. With their blessing, I packed my paper mask and hand sanitizer, used the bathroom (as I had to consider that I wouldn’t be able to enter my parents’ house) and was on my way.

What would have been a routine drive only a month prior was suddenly an outing; a journey for which I had to make preparations. The peculiarity of the situation was not lost on me in the moment and would only grow as I began my travels.

Once I got in my car, however, and started driving through town, it was striking the ways in which everyday life and unprecedented hardship were coexistent. There were the three workers I saw at a residence’s driveway in town laying asphalt. None of them were wearing masks (that I could tell); they were certainly closer than six feet apart and were apparently going about business as usual. Children were on their bicycles and on foot, taking advantage of what has become the longest spring break they’ll likely ever experience. A driver in front of me swerved abruptly over the center traffic lines and back, leading me to ponder the idea that while there’s never a good time for an automobile accident, it would be difficult to imagine a worse time than right now.

As I passed Geaker’s Tacos in Bethlehem Township, I noticed the empty picnic benches available. These would usually contain families and workers grabbing a quick bite on their lunch breaks on a “normal” sunny spring day.

With St. Luke’s Anderson Campus on my right, I of course thought about the healthcare workers inside and the danger to which they are exposed every day. The Panera Bread location just down the road in the shopping center near Route 33 had a dozen or so signs along the road advertising their take-out and delivery options. Fat Jacks’, a popular watering hole in Palmer Township, had on their marquee: “SORRY CLOSED TEMPORARILY HOPEFULLY.” It felt nice, and then sad, to see the word “hopefully” in that context. That’s all we can collectively do at the moment, is hope, right? With the original Richard’s Drive-In picnic tables blocked by yellow caution tape, they seemed to be taking social distancing precautions quite seriously.

I arrived at my parents’ house just as they were settling down to sit outside on their front porch for a few moments. My father has been using much of his vacation time to mostly stay home from his warehousing job and my mother’s hours have been reduced to part-time (of her own volition) at her place of employment, as well. They must be getting awfully bored, I thought, enjoying the perfect timing of my arrival. My mom saw me first as I parked across the street, waving to me as I turned my car off and put on my mask.

Honestly, I’m not sure how much wearing the mask outdoors really mattered, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. I sat on the sidewalk for three hours talking to them, saying hi to their cats (my “brother and sister”) through their screen door. I took pictures of them and they of me, laughing at the idea that if I was better prepared I’d have brought a beach chair or something else a bit more comfortable to sit on. I hadn’t seen this view of the block I grew up on since I was a child, playing with the other neighborhood children.

Then the clouds began to gather and the sun began to disappear. The breeze was turning cooler and it seemed that just as soon as I’d arrived, it was time to leave. My mom began to cry, knowing that there would be no hug and kiss goodbye. I knew that I couldn’t linger for long, it would just make it more painful, so I said my goodbyes and hopped in my car. As I pulled away, I saw my dad embrace her, trying to fill the void.

I decided to take William Penn Highway, which becomes Easton Avenue, as my route back home to Bethlehem. A house right around the corner had its front porch decorated with colorful balloons and signs proclaiming “BEEP! Alyssa is 6!” (So of course, I did.) Both Wawas tI passed, which are usually bustling with activity nearly 24/7 regardless of what’s happening around them, were mostly empty. I saw in succession multiple vehicles inside of which their occupants were wearing masks. At first I thought it seemed a bit silly, but in our current situation, who was I to judge the precautions that people are taking? The cheapest gas price I saw was at the Gulf on Easton Avenue at $1.71 a gallon. That’s close to what I paid to fuel up my first car when I was in high school.

The parking lot at Pizza Como was hopping, with cars bumper-to-bumper and employees carrying pizza boxes, bags with sandwiches and salads and garlic bread to people looking to simplify their dinner options. I’m sure there are many exhausted parents navigating through their children’s online schooling while trying to pay their bills, avoid illness and keep their own mental health intact for whom a night off from cooking dinner is a small, but necessary, relief.

As I got closer to my home near Main Street in Bethlehem, more children and families were out and about, mostly observing social distancing and, I assume, simply trying to find some normalcy and solace in a beautiful day. I started thinking about how these streets would look in a month - six months - a year... would it be the same? Will we be back to life as normal? What exactly defines normal, anyway? These are all questions to which I wish I had answers.

I realize that, so far, I am one of the lucky ones. My friends and family are staying healthy and safe. My mother’s friend’s COVID-19 test came back negative. She’s now back home, resting comfortably and on the mend from “regular old pneumonia,” as she worded it in a text to my mom. Imagine: a world in which “regular old pneumonia” is somehow good news. This is not normal... or maybe it is, for now, at least.