The Window

June 4, 2009
By Rikkeally BRONZE, Prince Albert, Other
Rikkeally BRONZE, Prince Albert, Other
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

At my age, I feel as if there is nothing to do, but sit day after day and watch through my window. It's a big window in the front of my house. I can sit in my chair and just watch. Window watching is quite interesting. There's something new everyday, but mainly it's just real. And anything real is better than any old television.

I used to garden, when I could. I loved it. I find something magical in the way a flower grows. My garden was full; it was my own personal rainbow on a sad day. From daisies to orchids, I had them all. I would sit outside for hours just watching and greeting the people walking on by. Now, I hardly make it out. My garden depleted to nothing more than dying grass.

The mother with the bouncing child walks down the street. The child waves at me through the window, she's about four now. The joggers run past with fierce determination. The speed walking ladies will be around in about a hour. Mind you, they’re just a bunch of gossiping old women. Two teenage girls giggle and chat excitably - how wonderful would it be to be young again. A young man bikes, staring straight ahead. The new couple from down the street do their usual evening walk staring into each other’s eyes. All these people, I watch everyday. I know so much about them, though I know nothing at all.

A girl probably about eighteen years old walks the sidewalk. I have never seen her before so I peer closely at her. The wind whips at her shockingly red hair and splatters it across her face. The colour of her hair, a flower I cannot name. Her face, fair and oval with delicate features like a china doll. She looks so fragile, like she could break at any moment. She looks familiar, though I can't seem to remember where I've seen her before. I notice her petal pink lips and her eyes, so green like emeralds. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen and yet, she looked so sad. Those ivy green eyes troubled and her brows set in a frown. I noticed, with a start, that this girl was crying.

Her tears streaked her porcelain face in a way that wasn't right. I wanted to run out and comfort her, but I didn't. I watched her leave and was left to watch the old gossiping ladies.


Another day and I watch through my window. Surprisingly, the beautiful girl returns. This time when she passes she looks at me. I stare back at her and she hesitantly smiles. I can still see the sadness hidden beneath her mask. She goes on walking with her ruby mane flying behind her.

The mother and waving child, the determined joggers, the gossiping ladies, the chatty teenage girls, the cyclist and the young couple go past. I go to sleep with a hole in my heart, wondering about the girl.

Pain. It piercingly shoots through my chest. I grasp at my heart, stumbling towards the phone. I thought it was nothing, but it wasn’t. I grasp the phone and punch in the three digits and breathe my words into the receiver. Anguish begins to take over as I try to tell the operator I am having a heart attack.

I fall to the floor and I feel the fear running its course through my body. People always say that your life flashes before you when you are about to die. I was no exception. I see everything I have done, but I realize as I start to lose my grip on reality, that I have accomplished so little. I have to hold on, it’s not my time yet, but it’s hard. It’s too hard.

Faintly I hear the sirens through the pain in my chest. The flashing lights coming through the window make ghostly shadows across the lifeless room. Somewhere a door is flung open. Her face constructs my view, her red hair a canopy, trying to cover the sadness her eyes can't mask anymore. Slowly, the pain takes over once again and everything goes silent as I let go of trying to survive.

I wake up and amble towards the washroom. It has been weeks since my heart attack. I still watch through my window everyday. That’s what I do, I watch. I have not seen the mysterious girl since that day. I sometimes think I imagined her. Her saddened, angelic face haunts my dreams each night. I keep waiting to see if she walks the sidewalk once more.

Slowly, I wash the sleep from my face and then I do something I haven't done in a long, long time. I look at myself, I really look. I notice new lines, driving deeper into my face. My eyes, that were so full of life turned a sad, moss green. My hair. Turned grey from the years, it used to be such a beautiful colour. I was the belle of the town back then. Henry spent an entire summer trying to name that colour. He said nothing too rough, but nothing too delicate. Something wild and different, yet beautiful. He would call me his poppy haired girl.


The mother too busy with her child, the determined joggers staring at that too long race, the old ladies talked on and on about the latest scandal, the teenage girls didn't have a sidelong glance, the cyclist wouldn't bother and the young couple, too in love to see anyone else passed by. I didn’t mind. They know what they want; they have that spark already in their souls.

The young girl walks down the street. She looks down at my yard and her petal pink lips turn into the first genuine smile I have ever saw on her face. Her smile radiates onto me and I know I am smiling too. She looks up at me on my old wicker chair, sitting on the old forgotten lawn amidst the row of poppies swaying in the breeze. Slowly, she waves and continues down the sidewalk, fading into the glowing sunlight.

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