I’ve spent my lifetime looking through windows. Right now, as the van turns down into the road approaching my stop near the university; I am struck by this fact.
Oh, of course I have no recollection of being in the incubator; my memory is of my grandmother’s telling me about it. How she peered in at me through the big window, her hands flat against the glass on either side of her face. Willing you to live, with all my hearts and wattles and warts! She said.
Years later, before I went to the boarding facility, I’d wait by her big lounge window in the afternoons; peering down the walkway, to wave excitedly when I saw her head appear over the garden wall. And I would shout; I spy you, Gramma! And she would laugh, every time.
The school had a bay window in the recreation room, the perfect spot for a bird’s eye view of all the matches and races. Here you could see as far as the summer house and bicycle shed, see who sneaked there for cigarettes and clandestine cuddles.
Once, after an operation which required a long hospital convalescence, I stared down through the window next to my bed, into a parking lot and watched a young woman remove a ring from her finger, hand it to the chap beside her and turn away, walking to another car idling at the pavement. I’d felt oddly ashamed when the young man bent over weeping, leaning on his car’s bonnet for support, in public like that!
When Gramma died and the house was too big and expensive to justify my living alone there, I made sure the estate agent understood that the windows would be the deciding factor when they took me to look at prospective flats to purchase.
Ah! Here’s my stop now!
I bend down to release the brakes on my wheelchair and wait for Solomon to come around and let the ramp down from the van, so I can join the other students flocking into the building. He says the same thing every morning, his wide grin splitting his happy face; Heave-Ho Desmond, let’s go!
I am studying architecture; there was no other choice for me, really.
©Cindy Taylor 2009