The Window

The Window

1:52

She left the window open

not for the breeze,

but for the memory

of those carefree days—

sipping coffee her mother made,

rocking on that old chair,

basking in the sun.

Everyone knew it was her favorite spot

for the way the mud smelled in the rain.

For the way the wind touched her skin.

For the way she felt alive,

aware of her being with every breath.

It felt effortless, nostalgic,

like childhood coming back in pieces.

Proof that a physical space

can carry you across time.

How the simplest routines

can create something magnificent

in a quiet corner of your mind

you never knew you carried.

Comforting as this may be,

she gently makes a note

of all things changed.

What once stood outside the window

now no longer exists.

Lush green plants

with fruits and vegetables dangling over.

They lacked no variety,

only waiting their season to bloom.

The green grass bed

where children often played

hide and seek, catch, and peekaboo

replaced now

with a deep hole in the ground,

as they begin to destroy

to construct yet another building.

The air no longer smells the same.

There won’t be sun falling onto the windowpane.

All that was mud

is now just a slab of concrete.

Even though the coffee tastes the same,

and the cushion on the chair remains unchanged,

it no longer takes her back to that memory.

The city has moved on,

and now, so has she.

Aug 2025