Memoir

Cleaning the Window Within

The first thing I noticed that morning was how dull the light felt.

It was not the sun. It rose the way it always does, steady and unbothered, brushing the tops of buildings, slipping quietly through the curtains. But something in the room resisted it. Even the familiar looked slightly out of place.

I walked to the window and absentmindedly ran my hand across the glass. A thin film of dust came away on my fingers. I wiped a small circle clear, just enough to see through. The light did not change much. It still felt muted.

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Always There, Almost Seen

In the early morning, before the house fully wakes, there is a quiet that feels almost deliberate.

I was sitting by the window with a cup of coffee, not thinking of anything in particular, when I noticed how the light had already entered the room before I had. It rested on the edge of the table, then moved slowly across the floor, as if it had been waiting there long before I came to sit beside it.

2

The Weight That Stays

It was a small thing, almost easy to miss. The way the old shopkeeper at the corner handed back change, not by dropping the coins into the customer’s palm, but by placing them there gently and waiting a brief second longer than necessary. As if making sure the other person felt it, not just received it.

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