A Window

I am looking at the window that I have looked out at for the past thirty-seven years. From this window, I have seen seasons change, the morning summer sun spreading across this room as an invitation to join the world outside, the early afternoon autumn leaves fall from the dogwood and the grass browning like a defeated old man succumbing to his sorrows, the late day snow creating a soft blanket of hazy forgetfulness on the lawn, and at dusk the white flowers bloom on the dogwood promising life to an awakened spirit.

But, as I said, I am looking at, not out, the window. Its wooden frame, once stained a walnut matte finish but now overpainted white. I can still see what it once looked like and still long for the darker look. What was I thinking? But I no longer possess the ambition, patience, or skill to strip the paint, sand the wood, and restain the frame to its original appearance. So white it shall stay.

The single-panel double glass pane, its weatherstripping still holding after all these years. I have seen the unsightly consequences of air entering the space between the two panes, causing a cloudy appearance. I have spent years, off and on, worrying that such an unpleasant situation would befall my windows. I am pleased to say that all this concern was entirely unnecessary. But why is so much air passing between the sash and the casing? Why is it so cold in here? I see no daylight, yet something must be wrong.

But those ornery lift bars. Only half an inch separates them from the stool, making it challenging to lift the windows. Don't push them down too quickly or your fingers will get jammed between the bar and stool, likely breaking some bones. Who thought of such an impractical design? Doesn’t the manufacturer do usability testing? Aren’t there laws such dangerous mechanisms?

No wonder I’ve been looking out, and not at, the window these 37 years.