Windows

And life through them

Age four, sound asleep. The little trailer’s bedroom window faced the river. On the right day, with the right wind, the river blew a perfect summer breeze over your face and shoulders as you napped away peacefully. Before the fire, there was this window. We tried to rebuild it, recreate it. It’s never been the same.

Twelve to sixteen. High school, mostly. My grandparents’ home was a hideaway, a safe haven for my adolescent relevance. A place to play the cool kid. The front window faced the park. It faced the whole world back then. The walk from school to this house of sweets and spoils. The swings and slides, where I first felt fear and fragility. Graffitied benches, and the misfits living life away from parents and teachers. Unbridled mischief on the other side of the tracks.

Eighteen, like Alice Cooper. Jimmy’s bedroom window. Our hangout. We sat and talked for hours, years really. We planned fishing trips and shared stolen cigarettes. Life was slower then. Much slower. We were alive and afraid and completely unaware. College would be different. Things would change without asking our permission. Time is a friendly thief with good intentions.

Twenty-one. The smallest window. 30,000 feet up on that first flight, looking down in disbelief. My journal reads, “Nothing I see can be taken from me.” Fitting Phish for a boy in awe of his opportunity. Life on the road. Virginia, Nebraska, Florida, Arizona, Alaska. This window changed it all. Higher learning, higher living. Zen and the art of leaving home.

All along, at camp, the big picture window in the woods. Thousands of conversations and coffees it has reflected. Thousands of pivotal moments. A dead maple hit the roof mere feet away, but the window remained steadfast. “I guess that this must be the place.” And may it always be.

And today, right here and now, the window beside this desk plays its role. It sheds light on a lot of things. The dog, most of the time, slobber and drool marking it his own. My words, presently unfinished. The bookshelf, with grouse feathers and ultrasound photos. Old books and new ones. This window is ours right now.

Many years and many windows. Pickups, apartments, airplanes, offices. A Utah breakfast view of my first day in the desert. An Adirondack balcony and a February rain on the morning of our wedding. A stained glass square and compasses. Some have gone while others remain. Some I have forgotten. Some I never will.

Someday there will be another window. Perhaps many. Someday there will be the last. With any luck, its breeze will blow perfectly off the river, and I’ll be four years old forever.