My window, the window that’s been mine since childhood, with the green of a Santa Fe spring outside it, the budded but not yet blooming Mock Orange which I can smell even unopened, even from here. The green apricots hanging thick on the old tree beyond it, against the back wall. I’m feeling the losses strongly, this house haunted with all the memories and forgettings of my past, my being what I am and what I’m not, the house I’m getting ready (though I can’t, ever, be that) to sell, once and for all.
How calm it looks, with that cup of cold tea gracing the windowsill. How little the photo tells of the whole story. How much I love it for what it holds hidden away.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Spring Green