Thursday, September 3, 2015


Whenever I am sick, I think of windows. Lying in bed and too tired to think of anything else, I look at my window naturally. Just like today.

Today there is sunshine outside. Through my window I can see it golden on the big gray trunk of an old pine tree and on part of the crepe myrtle tree bearing bright purple flowers in my backyard. The rest of the crepe myrtle tree is stuck in the shadow of a wall where its colors are of a more sober shade. A piece of blue sky shows above the wooden fence. The view, modest as it is, unfailingly steers my thoughts to a more cheerful direction.

I also remember the bedroom windows in my past. One was upstairs, looking right at a maple tree which was green in summer, golden and red in fall, and gray bare in winter. I used to wake up to the sight of that maple tree and the chirping sound of birds which penetrated even the window glass. I was going through a rough time then, but it was good to have that window to start a new day.

There was another upstairs window that looked down upon a young cherry tree in my front yard. It was spectacular in spring when it was blossoming in full pink with red robins flitting back and forth, but I loved it best when it started to show tiny buds that signaled the end of a dull winter. It was comforting to see hope started with such modesty before growing into such splendor.

In my life there were also dreary windows, which offered nothing more than the view of a bleak wall, stained with traces of rain and dust accumulated over years of neglect. Even in the brightest of days they only let in a weak, pallid sort of light, begrudgingly given to the unfortunate occupant of the room. No help to the downtrodden spirit really.

There are windows that I never had, those seen in some impressionist paintings with boxes filled with bright red geraniums overlooking an old, narrow, cobbled street. It must be nice sitting there in the morning, a cup of coffee in hand and the aroma of freshly baked pastries wafting in the air.

My favorite window was one that opened to the front yard of my old home, where my mother planted red roses, purple and coral gladiolas, white marguerite daisies, and a variety of pansies. I used to sit there, watching birds and butterflies play among the flowers and plants, or sometimes the rain coming down pitter-pattering on the shuddering leaves. It was so peaceful I would stay there for hours, the open book in my hand still unread.

Soon I will have that window again, I promise myself. My mother will not be there to plant her flowers anymore, but I will be watching my little girl playing on the lawn. Her little hands will touch the first flowers in her life; and her guileless smile will brighten up my many days to come.

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