Kevin Tracey
My Windows
How many?
How many windows have I looked through?
Thousands? Tens of thousands? I wouldn't begin to hazard a guess.
How many hours spent looking?
Thousands? Tens of thousands? Again, I wouldn't begin to hazard a guess.
I'm leaving out all those hours spent looking out of car windows, train windows, plane windows.
Just those windows that came with a home I once lived in. Old windows, windows that frost formed on, that the wind would whistle through, that let the heat out and the cold in.
There are a few, a handful that if I close my eyes, I could reach out and touch. I could tell you with certainty what color they were painted, which ones were chipped, what the shade looked like, whether the glass had any ripples or cracks, what they smelled like, felt like. I can hear the noises they would make when the wind blew. The noises they would make when I opened or closed them. I could point out the tracks they moved in, the ropes holding the sash weights, the locks. I could tell you which ones stayed open, which ones needed a stick to keep them open.
They all have those old green shades, no pull cord, just a piece of wood fed in through a sewn in slot at the bottom to grab. Shades that never stayed where you wanted them to. Shades that would roll up on their own.
I liked my old windows. I liked that they weren't perfect. I liked that they made noises, that not all the locks worked, that screws came loose, that they required maintenance to keep them working.
I'd like to go back to those rooms again, to those windows.
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