By nietocar

The Window
Two men in a retirement home share a room, one with broken legs, confined to the length of his bed; the other, mind not body broken, both separated by a white sheet. One’s view consists of the ceiling, the wall, the sheet, forever frozen images; the other, a window there to entertain his eyes.
Everyday he gazes out the window revealing a park and the civilians that meander through it, running, playing, gathering and rejoicing within the view. He describes the way simple red, yellow, and brown leaves float whimsically down to the green, green, grass below. How snow bunches on branches and, come the sun, the slush created seeping into shoes and running down the pavement. How spring showers cause flowers to blossom, so delicate are they. How heat rises from the concrete creating sweltering heat from summer’s sun.
Each day he communicates the pictures and the celebration of holidays and happiness. Each day the other lies there, looking at the ceiling left to generate the images and pines for the chance to see them through that window and see the beauty of it all. Jealousy grew within him each passing moment until one day while enjoying his meal; the window observer began to choke.
The other heeded no attention to the man’s crying and gagging. The room fell silent. Finishing his meal and drifting into a light sleep, he awoke to the murmuring of a priest. The nurse flitted over and gave the dreadful news of his roommate. The man wept for her benefit, then proceeded to request for the other’s bed to ease his suffering.
The next day he woke to find the silk curtains hanging from their rod, inviting him to pull them aside and preview the spectacle awaiting him. Propping himself on his elbows he drew himself up to peer through the curtains and gaze at whatever season, whatever holiday, whichever view the window offered him each and everyday, only to find himself staring at a dark, red, brick wall.


Created: Jul 20, 2010


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