I have grown used to trading windows,
I trade something each time as I move simultaneously closer and farther away.
Farther from family > closer to friends > farther from friends > closer to work >
farther from work and friends > closer to family.
I am back again in my old school chairs at a table etched with frustration and curious graphite. An old/new window looks down on stable green surroundings. It is an out-of-body experience of an earlier time, a dream of youth remixed.
But I feel so much older, ancient from the memories of windows before.
Cheaply made glass panes distinguish my realities.
At home in California we had a giant sliding glass door. We rarely used it as a door except to move furniture in and out. For me, it was always a window. Blue gum eucalyptus veiled us from the parking lot and invited soft blue shadows to inhabit mint green walls.
It was the first and only time a home felt like it was truly our own, not a borrowed space. That was before we left, before we were charged to dust the blinds and paint the insides of cabinets – charged to erase our existence.
Right before we left for the last time, I sat down against the wall we’d painted in our attempt to pretend the place was our own.
I was covered in shadows and light and I was everything in-between.
We were going home and I mourned because we never had the option to hold on to what was…
A window, a portal, to my desired existence.
Fake Spider Webs
Candles and Lanterns
Splatters of Scarce Rain
Here there is hemlock, moss, and lichen.
Here there is family and forgetfulness.
The remnant is a navy rocking chair that belongs to the spirit of a friend. The “I” that once was is no more and the window has become the in-between.