Looking out,

I see a little girl and her sister,

chasing a dog with their parents.

I hear their laughter and squeals

as the dad lifts them,

or when the dog playfully chases them

back.

I smell the heat radiating from the concrete

and the sweet sweat from their small bodies.

I smell the warm fur from the dog, and the freshly

cut grass.

I reach out and lightly touch this memory,

for I don't want it to run away like the girls.

I don't want it to leave.

Without my window, I can't see them, the light,

the love, the gentleness.

Without my window, I can't see that picture perfect

family scene.

Without my window, I can't see my past, which is something

I need for when I leave for my future.