The Window Speaks – Book Number 37

I’m a window. I’ve always been a window and that’s what I will always be. Perhaps I am a thousand years old. Perhaps not. Time has no meaning for me. People come. People go. They look right through me as if I don’t exist. At all. They get upset when they DO notice me. And that’s the only time I really seem to exist at all. That’s why I love being dirty.  People take care of me when I am dirty. Soap and warm towels, and water. That’s what I love. I can’t stand it when they clean me with newspapers, though. I can’t stand them. They are so opaque, full of lies. They are the post-truth. But I am the truth. I am a flat colorless window. What you see is what you get. Transparent. Quiet. Amost not there at all.

I wish I had a latch. People could open me and let the air in when the weather is nice. And close me when it gets cold and when the rain and wind slice into the room. But I a fixed window. Does it matter that I am your gateway to the outside world. I show you the birds, the clouds, the sunsets, the stars, the tears and the fears. And yet you still look right through me.

What will it feel like if I am ever broken, shattered, smashed?  And what will happen to me if they tear down the building some day? I am trapped. I will be doomed.

So the next time you look through a window, stop and say hello. Touch us. We won’t mind at all – fingerprints, especially the greasy, dirty ones. We will cherish each and every one.