My old white window rests above the stained red brick building. You can see the head of the historic town church on the right, and the ruins of the abbey to the left. King Arthur was buried there. Architectural modernity never existed here. That’s probably what made it so enticing to live in this village tucked away in the English countryside. The church bells sing to me every half hour while the birds yell at me routinely. The Indian restaurant below, lures me in as the smells of cardamom, fenugreek, and cumin seep into my window. I watch the Indian cooks working long hours, cutting vegetables viciously, pounding the Naan dough with their tired fists. I see them throw out the trash in the back of the restaurant slowly as if they are giving themselves a break before going back in the chaos. On occasion, I’ll see them smoking a fag with very pensive faces. I wonder what they think of? Are they miserable like the rest of us? Are they just trying to make ends meet? Do they have kids waiting at home for them with excited faces and wet tongues because they’d bring food home?
I guess I’ll never know…
Rooftop cats control the area and give me curious stares. In the day, the wind bullies the clouds, sometimes so much so, that the sky becomes nude and you can see her long blue frame. At night, the stars scatter the night sky and hug my eyes. The moon, depending on her mood can either ignore or smother you. Rain, angry hail, offensive wind, and occasional heat present themselves with little warning.
Every morning and night, I lie here with my old white window resting above the stained red brick building. It is the passageway to the new life I live. From soulless buildings to inspired ones. From Mexican cooks to Indian cooks. From rational weather to a bipolar one. From city lights to star lights.
Two more years with my old white window.