sunset through my kitchen window
When I was a child, I used to shadow my mother as she roamed about our house. Together, through all manner of windows, we would peer out into the day. These were often quiet times with my mother deep in thought. But always eventually she would remember that I was by her side, and she would say, “Do you see it?” As I pressed my face to the kitchen window, she’d point out things like, “The robin in the walnut tree? See the sunlight on its breast?” At night, gazing through the glass living room door, she would nod toward a single star. “See that one? Sparkling in the branches of the pear tree. That’s mine,” she’d say with a grin.
blowing bubbles through an open window
As I grew older, the tables turned, so to speak. In college and well-beyond, whenever and wherever I traveled (before the days of cell phones), I would drag the hotel phone to my perch at a window and describe to her all that I saw through my portal. Her reactions to what I shared certainly influenced by storytelling skills. From her I learned that windows framed moments as well as provided sources of light.
I’ve been lucky at this phase of my life to live in a space with many windows. With camera in-hand I am able to take full advantage of what mom taught me. She is on my mind today as a soft light falls illuminating the oak tree outside my window. On one branch a gray squirrel sits with cheeks bulging with acorns. Two branches up, a blue jay diligently cracks and consumes its own share of nuts. They both ignore me though I must be as viewable to them as they are to me. As I watch this sight, I think of the past and my window-time with mom but I also think of the present and future. That young friend I mention on occasion, the one with whom I draw, is older. A whopping four-years old. And as she visits now, one of her first requests of me is, “Can we look out all the windows?” How can I say no?
In a small frying pan, heat olive oil and butter. When hot, press the potato-radish mixture into the pan.
