Geraldine's story
Morning
or evening skyline
My familiar
friend
You’re the
rhythm of my days
Endlessly,
over and over again.
White ,
in the winter
You tare the
sky from the ground
With a soft,
smooth line
Not always
seen with the eye.
Spring brings
you back with colours
Your trees
slowly raising with a
Sharper
distinction between the greens
A few cows
scattered below grazing.
At midday,
when the summer sun rises high
Your shadow
starts streching along the hill
But I lose
you in the afternoon,
Shutting the
curtains to keep fresh indoors.
_____________________
Sarah's story
Through the window 2 Annie
(17.10.2024)
She woke up to a sunny day. Spring! It was here for sure. She could just glimpse out of the corner of her eye, through the window, what must be apple trees in bloom. She had always loved apple trees, their blossoms the quintessence of airy lightness, so that one never wanted their flowering to stop, even though the falling of the petals was a promise of apples in the fall. It was going to be a lovely day outside. Yet she felt disgruntled, irritated. Because she could not yet go out. Since her operation the doctor had been reassuring, she was making progress, he assured her with his habitual broad smile, but it was slow, she felt. And the doctor looked serious enough when he was talking to her son. Whatever were they saying together?
Thank goodness for her son. He had been the man to lean on since her husband died. It had not been a surprise when Jacob died, no: he was more than a decade older than she was, and had had Parkinson's for years. That had been the bad surprise, because he wasn't that old. She had been the one to have cancer ten years before that; at the time they had been worried about her, but she had pulled through. And then Jacob had started to show signs: his hands trembled, he dropped things, he had sudden uncontrollable rages. It had become too difficult to take care of the house and garden, so they had sold it all and moved to a flat in town. That had worked for a few years, then Jacob had got so bad they had had to put him in a home. She had gone to see him every day.
Some of her friends hinted that it would be a release for her when he died, that she would get her life back again. But she missed him. Even though at the end it was not entirely sure that he knew who she was, he had seemed to brighten when she walked in, and seemed happy that she was there, though they couldn't talk; she sat there reading or knitting or doing crosswords and from time to time they exchanged a glance. Or rather, she looked at him, because his eyes never seemed really to focus on anything in particular. He wouldn't eat unless she was there to feed him.
He had died in September, and somehow she had got through the winter, though she never felt really up to anything. Her friends proposed outings but she rarely went. The cinema didn't attract her nowadays, it was either violent or silly, and it tired her to take long walks or to go out in the evening. She preferred to tidy the flat, which always looked nice, to invite a friend to lunch from time to time, or to paint a little. She had done a lot of painting before Jacob got bad, but after that she hadn't had time. She was working now half time, which she had started when she went to the rest home every day, and the half salary was enough for her needs. She had always been quiet, and a quiet life now suited her perfectly.
Then the trouble in her lungs had started. It wasn't cancer again, she had stopped smoking, it was some sort of fungus that had got in there and finally the doctor had ordered an operation, which everyone said had been successful. And she was actually getting stronger. When Samuel, her son, had come to see her the day before she had said to him—no, she hadn't actually said it as she couldn't talk yet though they said she would be able to in a few days, but she had spelled out to him on the chart "we're going to make it!"
Now she looked through the window and she was impatient to be out there, in the glorious sunshine, among the new green, among the frothy apple trees. Impatient, and then filled with new hope. Better times were ahead, she felt it. It was a firm conviction and it buoyed her up. If only it could be right now! She had read Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass in her childhood, and had read Harry Potter to her children, and she almost believed in magic. If she could just pass through the window, effortlessly, and be out there now, under the apple trees, feeling the sun on her arms, listening to the birds—the swallows were back, she had heard them—watching the clouds move gently across the blue sky.
Then the ward assistant came in, a friendly, fussy woman, for the morning care. "We'll get you all washed up and pretty now, won't we?" the woman said. That was flattery: she had never been pretty, she had had what they called a "nice face", and even that was growing prematurely old, she could see. She had grown thinner, she knew, and the last time she had looked in a mirror she had started aback at the hollow cheeks and the threads of grey in her hair and the little lines that had appeared at the corners of her eyes. But the woman was nice and would make her presentable at least, for when the doctor came. She let the woman wash her legs and arms, go round her neck and begin on her face. She lifted her head a little to help and the wet cloth felt cool on her cheeks. Then she sighed and fell back on the pillow.
"Now, if you'll just turn over, dearie, I'll do your back," said the woman. "Please, if you would, just turn yourself over."
When there was no response and the woman lifted the patient's arm it fell back limply. The eyes were closed, and yet it didn't seem ... It was best to call the doctor. The doctor looked at the lifeless form, and then pronounced what the ward assistant already knew to be true.
"She looks so peaceful," said the woman, "so happy."
_________________________________
Jackie's story
I saw a reflection of my life
through the window.
Recently I wanted to start a
new business.
Yes ok, I am 75 and I’ve lived my life starting new business
adventures – having fun and then another idea would appear and I’d change and
start something else. It’s in my DNA and I cannot stop even at this late
age.
I see these projects, life changes, new ideas
as windows in my life.
I won’t bore you with the
details of things that I have done in my existence as we would be here all day
but as a new project crosses my mind I have though come across a barrier this
time.
Part of the fun of having a new
idea is in the planning, researching and projecting myself into this new
start-up.
I’d spend weeks even months and
sometimes years looking through this window of ideas and imagining and
perfecting, projecting myself how I
would be in my new role. I’d spend
hours stimulating this imagination looking through magazines, scrolling
Pinterest, social media, gleaning ideas
and scheming.
There was such a surge of
excitement and anticipation in this planning that sometimes when the idea was
realized the actual doing it became dull and I was tired of it almost before it
got going.
As I explained this idea to my
bank manager he said – “there is no way”
you are too old and there are no guarantees.
So be it, I have enough windows
to look through and today I’m looking back and re-opening each of them and
experiencing satisfaction, contentment,
fulfillement, happiness and joy knowing that I could not have done better and
would probably look happily through these same windows if I were born again and
were to do the same thing.
Annemarie's story
Through the Window
I watched as a crow flapped it’s wings in a steady rhythm, glided, then
swooped down into the field. The sky was a mass of louring indigo clouds hovering over the ripening wheat
fields and I am reminded of Van Gogh's painting.
“I wonder if he foresaw his own
death, if knew he was about to die?” I asked Tim.
“Who? What on earth are you
talking about?”
“Vincent van Gogh. You know the
chap who cut his ear off. His last painting was of lots of crows flying over a
field of wheat under a threatening sky, just like now; in the middle a rough
road ends abruptly; just now I was
watching a big black crow swoop into the wheat field. Soon after he painted it
Van Gogh shot himself and he died a couple of days later. Wondered if he knew
it was his last.”
Tim grunted, somewhat preoccupied. “I wouldn’t know. Not really
interested in art, as you know. And really, I’d rather you kept quiet after
what you’ve put me through,” he added ominously.
I stared ahead. The sky turned grey and menacing and fat blobs of rain hit the windscreen, getting
faster and denser, splashing against the glass until the wipers were swishing
so fast they could barely keep pace.
Tim leant forward gripping the steering wheel, peering through the
rippling rain. I look nervously at his bony hands jiggling the wheel this way
and that as he struggles to see the road, the headlamps only succeeding in illuminating
the tumultuous downpour.
“I can barely see the bloody road;
might have to pull up if it gets any worse but I just want to get home. I think we have to take a left somewhere.
Fuck this bloody weather,” he cursed.
“Please, Tim, please just stop
now. Pull up and we’ll sit it out. Please.”
Turning his head to look at me, his face angry and vulnerable at the
same time, he hissed,
“Just shut up will you; I'll never
forgive you for…”
and I heard no more as the car
screeched and skidded, then a huge jerk as we crashed through something and for
a micro second we were suspended in beating wet air, before the car tilted and
hit deep water - deep, dark water.
I screamed for Tim. The shock of cold water as it filled the car had me
gasping for air and gulping water at the same time. Desperately in those few
seconds I tried to remember what to do
in a submerged car... undo safety belt; I struggle to find it, I’m shivering
and my hands are frozen, clumsy, I can’t
undo the effing thing; stretch up and breathe some air…. Panicking I turned to
see Tim climbing through his window. I
twist round in my seatbelt - so sluggardly in the dragging water - and try
opening mine but the electrics are no
longer working. I try to push open the door - impossible. The backend of the
car is sinking faster; there’s still air at the front. Pushing my hands down on
my seat I gulp again; I’m oh so cold. There’s a movementm outside
the windscreen and I think I discern Tim swimming round to my side. The
water washes around my chin as I strain and reach for the tiny air pocket above
my head.
Through the window I can just see his murky head, his hair streaming
upwards as he presses a macabre face against the window, his nose squashed and
his lips playing a grim smile. Then he turns away; I think I saw a watery wave of his hand as I gulped
again…water… cold…….bla-a-ck……dir-ty …..wa…”.
________________
Paula's story
The
argument — how many had there been already, just that weekend alone? —had
escalated into much more than an argument. It suddenly had turned into a referendum
on their relationship as a whole. His whole body had tensed, and he thought, finally,
this is it. This. Is. It. This is how a love affair ends.
He took a
deep breath and said in a steady voice, “Sonia. I can’t do this anymore. I
can’t live like this for one more day. I’m done.”
It wasn’t
always like this. When Jack and Sonia met at the party of a mutual friend,
there was a crackling connection, an electricity so vibrant that they both
looked around them at the other guests, thinking others must have — had to have
— felt it. The next few months were blissful in a way neither had ever before
experienced. Their conversations lasted for hours, their love-making even
longer sometimes. They would tell each other that they had never before felt so
safe with another person. Never before had they understood true intimacy.
Maybe it
was inevitable that such passion should eventually include such volatility.
Their fights were loud and angry. They felt like endings. Yet, after a day or
two of silence, they would rush back into each other’s arms, wondering how they
could have said the things they said, how they could have hurt each other so badly.
And after
each battle, and each reconciliation, Sonia felt just a little bit emptier
inside. Was this what love was supposed to feel like? She felt like she was
losing herself in Jack’s presence, that she had started relying on him to provide
her emotional well-being, her sense of self-worth. She started feeling like she
was losing her very identity.
Worst of
all, worse than the arguments themselves, was the fact that she didn’t like
herself when they were screaming at each other. She had started to feel like
she was always waiting for the next explosion. It didn’t feel healthy to her.
And that’s what this latest fight had been about.
Jack had bitten
back the very same feelings. Surely, two people as much in love as he and Sonia
could work this out. But the very same worries had crept into his own mind, and
he was afraid of losing her, of losing what they once had together, terrified to
the point of contradicting everything Sonia said, even as every word she said echoed
in his own brain.
As they
each stood contemplating Jack’s words of finality, they fell silent. But the
room itself wasn’t quiet. Through the open window, the voices of children
playing in the street wafted into the vast space between them. Happy calls and
cheers echoed off the high ceiling, incongruous sounds invading the scene of
two people locked in battle, two lovers once so in love and now caught in a
vile pattern of accusations and recriminations. It felt so odd, this sound of
joy, an uninvited guest intruding on a moment of extraordinary heartbreak.
They stood
silently, breathing hard, facing each other. Jack’s tears came first, and
Sonia’s followed in an instant. As immediate as that first electric sense of
recognition when they met, came the same sense of recognition that it was over.
They walked
slowly toward each other, and embraced, haltingly.
“We can
still be friends,” Jack began weakly. But he knew it wasn’t true.
Sonia shook
her head, turned, and walked out the door.
Annemarie's story
