Writing || Through the Windows

In a house across the street from me there lives an elderly lady. Most mornings when I sit on the balcony while eating breakfast I see her gardening in her fuzzy dressing gown, seemingly in no rush for the day to truly begin. Her house has the kind of windows I one day dream of having on a home of my own; windows to push open and let the sun filter through, curtains dancing in the wind. 

I've never met this lady but over the past couple of months I seem to have invented my own version of a life for her. Whenever I'm feeling anxious I imagine the peace she emanates streaming throughout her house. Her front room must have a record player which is always on, the classical music it's playing following the breeze through every room. Maybe there's a big comfy arm chair there too, positioned in just the right spot to be bathed in morning sunlight, where one can curl up like a cat to read a book or watch the dust suspended in the sun beams. Her kitchen might look like it did in the 70's; the linoleum on the floor the shade of orange and yellow that everyone associates with that time. It would be the perfect kitchen for pulling up a rickety wooden chair and having a chat over tea and cake.

I know none of this is likely true, but that's not what matters. These imaginings aren't about the lady or her house, but instead are a place for my mind to go when it needs to calm down. When things get really noisy up there sometimes the only peace it's able to find is the peace of somebody else, and for now that will have to do.