The eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul. I think about that quite a lot these days. The eyes do tell our stories, and those stories are written, pages upon pages, during the course of a life lived.
There is one window in the house that built me, and although it’s still there, it allows little light through its worn panes where dust covers the window seat in the emptiness of a living room void of life. I remember Easters in that room when my brothers and I gathered in front of the window covered in shimmering gold draperies, posing in our Sunday best while Mama fiddled with our cowlicks and Daddy aimed for the best shot with his camera.
I fondly recall the moments I sat on the plush gold carpets still warm from Mama’s Electrolux vacuum cleaner, listening to her fussing with her new ruffled Priscilla sheers, adjusting and readjusting them in pursuit of perfection. I was only a small child, but I love holding on to that memory of Mama with arms stretched wide, covered in yards and yards of buttery cream-colored fabric. Sometimes I pretended she was an angel staring down from behind the sheers, and more than a few nights she lifted me into her arms and carried me off to my bed.
I smile and I cry as I remember. I bet you also have memories which bring you both joy and pain in the remembering.
That window could tell a hundred stories if it could talk, Mama propped in it watching cautiously the front yard as my 15th birthday party got loud, me sitting on the porch swing beside her looking into the house, watching Daddy sip his coffee. All the things that big old picture window framed in my lifetime still warm my heart — glimpses of the yellow school bus on chilly winter mornings, Christmas bulbs flashing from the lighted Nativity scene positioned by the road for all the neighbors to see, flickers and flashes of fireworks in the night sky, and the silhouette of my Uncle Wayne.
That window was more than just a way for me to see in and out. It was a magical looking glass that showed me the ever-changing world around me, and I was Alice in Wonderland moving back and forth into and out of that world. Mostly it was my happy place where Mama and I spread old-fashioned silver tinsel on the Christmas tree, where we grew up together.
The last view I ever had looking out “our” window was me waiting for her to pass by on her last ride down that little country road. It was the saddest moment of my life, made bearable only by holding on so tightly to the magical memories of one little boy, his mama and the best window seat in the world.
Email reaches former Columbus resident David Creel at [email protected].
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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