The thing I hate most about this house is my bedroom window. My bedroom is a converted garage with the lack of insulation to show for it. I can't see out the window and wouldn't want to if I could. It looks over the garbage at the end of the driveway to noisy 35th. Last year, one night, before I fell asleep, all I could think about was windows. I missed our bedroom window in our Parkland house that looked into the quiet backyard where Ed helped trim the laurel hedges. There was one tree. I missed our bedroom windows in our home in Roslindale, Mass. The one behind the bed frame that brought in the wind and was moved through to the other window that overlooked the back yard. There was one tree there, too. I watched the seasons change through that window. In the winter, I would crack it and breath in the sharp, crisp, freezing air of a New England January. I still smell it now and I can see Ed & I running to the car, freezing, laughing after a perfect night at Matt Murphy's in Brookline.
I'm drunk with grief. Reality is settling in. I break down in absolute brilliant despair cleaning up the kitchen dishes. I imagine I will call these months the thawing out period. I'm finally daring to ask whether it's even possible to ever feel such complete amazing, secure inspiring love. I need to see the possibility. I am so lucky to miss someone so fully and completely.
I need windows. I need lots of light. I need a bedroom window, or windwos, where I can have those moments we all have- where we pause outside of place and time to remember what was and imagine what could be. I want to see outside in those moments.
So, first on the house list: a bedroom window that looks outside where I can see easily and naturally what was and what is.