Windows

I love windows on old houses and buildings. I love to imagine who has peered into them, and who has looked out over the many years. What foreheads have leaned upon them in dispair, what fingers have traced pictures on the condensated glass; what hand had lain upon it to feel the cold or greet a loved one entering the home.

I always imagine, when I see an old abandoned and untended house, what it was like on the day the it was newly built, and how happy the first night must have been for the owners who occupied it. I see in my mind straight timbers instead of those leaning; finely painted porch railings instead of crippled and peeling; whole and solid instead of piecemeal and wanting. I see the warm lamps glowing through lace curtains and wavy glass, as daylight defers to darkness, which descends quickly and reflects the last golden rays into the windows.