Memories

I’m Afraid to Look Through the Window

I don’t know what I’m going to see

I usually just sit in front of the computer and type. If my attention strays, it will be to the cup of mint tea on the left side of the keyboard.

Not to the window.

And the window is big. It’s not actually a window. It’s a glass wall. Two gliding doors are embracing one another, murmuring silently in their eternal sleep. The sleep that reveals dreams.

If only I dared to look.

Just once.

Oh, what I would see…

I’d see the balcony and my son’s ancient flip-flops: they’ve been hiding in a corner, on the cold dirty tiles (I haven’t cleaned the balcony since the beginning of winter); and I’d see him again, the way he was eight years ago: splish-splash on the summer balcony in the flip-flops through pools of water, holding a few cups he’s filling and emptying, feeling and emptying in the ocean under his feet. A small four-year-old boy with dark-blond curls and a wide mischievous smile.

I’d see the drying rack, empty now because it’s winter and the cold and humidity won’t let the clothes dry outside; and I’d remember the times when I was hanging out clothes and my two-year-old daughter would hand them out to me, one item of clothing after another. She would solemnly pick up a T-shirt and exclaim: ‘Daddy!’ and I’d nod, and then she would scream with pleasure. Yes, I got it again! It’s Daddy’s blouse! And this is mummy’s! And this is Lilly’s! And this is Asen’s…

Asen is her big brother’s name. She is in love with him.

My look would roam over the balcony’s railing and would linger over the tops of the two pine trees. They are so tall that they almost block the view of the block of flats across the small square. Dozens of small, pretty balconies, swimming in seas of greenery, their awnings half-down like half-closed eyes, sleepy bear’s eyes, it’s winter, it’s time to curl up in front of the fire-place and sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep away the cold, sleep away the sorrows, disappointments, betrayals, unforgettable love affairs, youth, old age, death, why are we here on this earth, questions, questions, questions, oh, sleep everything away and wake up filled with a child’s wisdom and incomparable bravery again.

Oh, yes, and I would see the snippet of a street visible through trees and buildings and the cars there, and motorbikes, and buses, they’d be flying, and I’d wonder where they are going. ‘Why are these people on the move, and I’m stuck here at this desk? Will they meet many other people today? Will they talk to them? Will they hug them, kiss them, forgive them, love them? Or they will come back home in the evening full of the bitterness of contempt and humiliation? Where are they going, all these people outside? To the hospital to their patients? To the school to their students? To the restaurant to their meals? To the shop for their clothes? To the coffee place to their friends? Am I the only one, the only one in this world sitting here immersed in words instead of life: Am I slowly dying, Am I already dead?’

Oh, and if my eyes jumped over the busy street, I’d see the dome of the small church and the iridescent colors of its windows. I wonder if there’s somebody inside at this time of day, this dreary winter morning, somebody who’s praying, afraid to look away from the candle in their hands, afraid to look outside, to look out the windows.

Afraid of what they might see outside.

Wendy A. Chavez, Grace Bianco, Valerie Spitaels, Colleen Millsteed, Nikki Kay, Patricia Timmermans, Stephen Kramer Avitabile, Ryan K., and Marie A. Rebelle: Would you dare look through your windows? Would you dare tell me what you’re seeing?

I challenge you to write a short piece on the topic. Anyone else who is brave enough to disclose the secrets that lie beyond the glass is also welcome. Don’t forget to tag me so I can read your work!

If you liked this story, you might enjoy any of my personal stories here:

Thank you!