*From a writing exercise at my Monday night writers' group, A Cup of Words.
What is on the other side of the window?
Windows have always drawn me, pulling my gaze beyond where I am, to where I am not. It is a sensation similar to staring down a long road at the horizon line ---feeling that wanderlust boil over and spill out into your gut. What is outside there, what can I not find here, in this room, in this town, in this life?
What is on the other side of the window, covered in frost from a winter storm, or made translucent by pouring rain from a thunderstorm? What is it that stares back at me from the world outside my bedroom, my living room, my library?
They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and I look into yours, wondering. Who are you, how are you, why are you who you are? I listen to your voice, like the wind whispering, howling, pressing against the glass. I want your stories, your passion, your darkness and light. What would I find on the other side of your windows, and how can I get in.
I dream of window shopping, walking down a quiet, small town street, gazing into antique shops, bookstores, flea market booths. What treasures lie in there, and if I could explore, what would I discover. What trinket would remind me of who I am, where I’ve been, what I long for? What is on the other side of that window?
I stand in the back yard, garden hose in hand, spraying down the siding, and notice the view into my own house, my own kitchen. It is different somehow, as if I am staring into someone else’s house, someone else’s life. What is in there, in the cupboards, stuck to the fridge with magnets, and why?
I notice you, looking through your window eyes, studying me. The one view I cannot see---myself from your perspective. Yet, there you are, staring, and I have a sudden urge to throw open the curtains and raise the blinds.
What do you see, on the other side of the window?