Windows

I've always loved windows. But I don't think I've ever taken the time or the energy before to think of why I do. The windows are a frame from the inside, and a frame from the outside. When a person is outside in the night and dark and cold, they look into a house and see warm light shining on the faces of the people inside, and they want to be there too. The frame of the window makes the people inside look like people posing for a portrait with contrasts in darks and lights. A person looking outside is separated from the elements outside. They see the rain slanting down the glass, and they are happy that they are inside and warm, and not out in the cold and wet.

The windows have glass in them. The glass separates, as well as connects. It separates in that it makes so that a person inside does not feel the same elements that are outside, and vice versa. It connects, because something can go through the glass—sunshine. Sunshine is the bridge which brings the outside inside; the reaching warm arm. It only reaches in sideways as it slants around buildings and trees, finding its angular way through someone’s unveiled window. They bask in the sunshine, letting it soak into their fingers, watching it illuminate the leaves of a potted plant, smiling while it bathes in blond the hair of their children.

Sideways light comes only in the morning and the evening, coloring the sky with purples and gold, shining sideways through the leaves of the trees, illuminating their sides in winter. The air is golden and the light catches and holds a hand, a leaf, or an ear, glowing bright pink and gold. Windows are the oculus: the eyes that allow the eyes of humans to give and take, exchange with the world on the other side of the glass.