There is a window in my house that overlooks the entire world, down the hill, to the creek, and across the field. It is my window, even if it is in the back of the house, in the hallway that everyone uses. But I know it loves me best. My name is carved there, right in the corner, scratched into the paint in big capitals that I made when I was six and three quarters. The eggshell white paint is peeling, and someone might notice that it is time to freshen it up, and my name would be destroyed. But I know it loves me best. The pane gets dirty sometimes, from the frost, or the dust of the driveway. I trace patterns in it, when I am trying to distract myself from the nasty word games that the adults like to play every night. When I was four days and nineteen hours away from being seven, I learned that sometimes hands work better than words. You always win that way. But I know it loves me best. I fell asleep there once, and was woken by the sun glinting off a strange car. I knew it wasn’t ours because the metal was too shiny to belong to our dirt road. The lady riding in it said I was going for a drive, just for a bit. I have since decided that she must have been ancient, if fifteen years was only a bit to her. Because she took me away from my window. But I know it loves me best.