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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…
