Windows

*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?