The
window. The little window on the left,
with Grandma’s curtains still hanging nicely on either side of the sink.
I
never knew how much that window meant to me.
It was just a window. We came and
went from that house about a million times over the 33 years I spent with
her. And every time we left, there she
would be, at that window, waving as we left the driveway, from the time I was a child, through my adulthood and the lives of my children. She'd wave, and we’d wave back.
That
window had never looked so empty as it did the first time I left the house
after her death. There wasn’t just an
emptiness, but a cavern on the other side of that glass. For all the times I’d left the house and
waved on my way out of the driveway, I never realized the significance of that simple gesture, or the smile that accompanied it.
I’ll never see that sight in real life again, but I see it in my heart
every time I see that window.
