Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The view from the windowsill

As a child I spent a lot of time playing by the windowsill. I remember rainy days with my head pressed against the glass, breathing onto the window to make it fog up and then drawing happy faces, flowers and houses into the condensation there. Drawing idyllic domestic scenes was a favourite past time of mine, besides it seemed like it was always too wet to go outside.

I remember autumn days sitting by the windowsill, reading a book while the wind whipped the brown and orange leaves into a whirling frenzy outside. Pulling my too big jumper over my knees and right down over my toes - stretching it until it hung low and baggy. Too cold to go outside and who could be bothered anyway?

I remember setting up house by the windowsill for my dolls and lego. A windowsill is a perfectly straight bench with finite parameters and perfect for a temporary toy laden lodging. I'd play there while the sun shone outside, or even if it didn't just playing and always keeping my eye on the outside world, just in case.

I remember being a child waiting by the window, with my chin resting on the windowsill watching the sun disappear behind the rooftops of the houses opposite ours. Waiting for Dad to come home from work - always wondering whether he'd make it - always thinking that he wouldn't. My view from the windowsill a reminder that things don't always happen on time.

I remember sleepless nights, as a teenager awake way past the witching hour. 2am, 3am, 4am, 5am would see me with headphones in, and my cheek pressed firmly against the coldness of the glass as I watched the street light illuminate the corner block. Indie music on an obscure AM radio station blared into my open eyed dreams as I wondered about the sleeping world outside my window.

Spring now, a kaleidoscope of sunlit hues playing on the windowsill and tinkling brightly into the room. I'm still keeping my eye on the outside world from this windowsill. I'm just not quite ready to go there yet.

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