In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Through the Window.”
Today, when I look out the window, I see the busy hive of a major hospital; cars coming and going, ambulances in and out, people walking every way possible, buses picking up and dropping off employees. The cycle of life in the coming and going of cars and people and lives.
My life is divided by windows. My bedroom window remains open regardless of heat, cold, rain, snow, thunder or alien raiders. My cat, Meville, demands it and, spoiled as she is not, the window stays open. When I come home she wants me to come to the window and look outside with her, all the while telling me about her day. The birds, the bugs, everything she saw.
Looking at the window, I see the flowering Lantana in my north garden, the best fifty cents I ever spent. Apparently, my Lantana loves it’s home because every year it comes back like gangbusters, thick with flowers, bees and butterflies.
I see my Aunt’s house from the window. She’s eighty-three and still lives alone, drives, whatever she needs to do. And yet, the signs are growing. Things are harder, sometimes each day. Harder brings depression, loss. Endings.
I am at my childhood home, sometimes in those long years of high school. I have fallen asleep during the afternoon. When I awake and look out the window, I’m overwhelmed with the feeling I am the last person alive on earth. The world feels empty; everything looks different in the small way that makes one stop and attempt to figure out what, exactly, is different.
Peering out the window at night when I was a child, watching lightening light the sky. My sister and I called them ‘picture shows’ and we loved kneeling on our beds to watch the fierceness of nature beyond the safety of wood and wire mesh. The night smells cool and damp, a smell I carry with me through my life.
Staring out the sliding doors of our first – ground floor but half-way below – apartment as the water rises and floods over the brick wall around the patio, the welcome mat carried down the hallway on an ever rising river. Water over our knees as we scramble out the patio door to safety.
Staring out the window at rain-washed shingles as I wait for my first-born, image marking itself in my mind like the signpost to another country.
So many windows dividing one moment of life from another, dividing days into flashes of memories. The cycle of life in the coming and going of people and lives.