When retirement eased its way into our lives, my husband and I decided to celebrate those remaining years in a setting where ancient oaks stood sentry in the front of 1940s homes, where an intervening boulevard boasted huge Formosan azaleas that burst into deep pink blossoms in the spring.

Still, I wanted more. I wished for a scenario where neighbors became friends, and families interacted socially and supportively. After all, this was the neighborhood of my youth, and that’s how it was then.

The house we chose was one street over and aligned with my childhood home. Three neighbors of my formative years still lived there, and bonding again was a heartwarming experience.

At the same time, making new relationships evolved as chit chats over picket fences began to merge with casual dinners. It would be a good fit as a sitcom in the era of “Leave It To Beaver” and “Make Room For Daddy” as innocent humor was parlayed into lasting memories.

Multiple personalities weaved effortlessly to make our little part of this world a rich pattern of exception rather than the norm. Everything was shared. Midmovie calls stating warm cookies from the oven were ready so meet me on the boulevard were common, and fresh produce from vegetable gardens was proudly passed around.

So the years have been kind, and we reveled in the midst of the good life. That was then; this is now.

Blindsided by this intrusive pandemic, Pandora’s box was not only opened but upended. So we wore masks and limited trips away from home to necessities. It was decided that our children and grandchildren would distance themselves so as not to affect those older and more vulnerable to COVID-19.

Even with media raging with horrid scenes, we never felt it could touch upon us as we were keeping such a cautious stance.

At some point, a nonchalance toward restrictions seeped in. Small gatherings took place because we never thought our safe haven could be touched like those people in the news.

It took one innocent encounter that changed it all. And we were them.

Bill was our close friend. He lived across the street with Marilyn, his wife. I say “was” because he succumbed to this virus that shows no mercy. He is like that piece missing in the middle of the puzzle. It’s just not right.

Being short in stature may have caused this delightful man to be strong in his viewpoints, but his soft side was also well-represented.

Endeared by his wife and family, he will be ever in our hearts and minds.

This is only one version. Thousands could write basically the same story with a nip and tuck here and there. So many have been impacted and, yes, are continuing to be.

The new norm? What will that truly mean? And what will each one of us take away from this period and carry for the rest of our lives?

— Tujague lives in Lafayette

Advocate readers may submit stories of about 500 words to The Human Condition at features@theadvocate.com or The Advocate, Living, 10705 Rieger Road, Baton Rouge, LA 70809. There is no payment, and stories will be edited. Authors should include their city of residence, and, if writing about yourself, a photo.