*
I recall a conversation in winter, when I was four or five: my father sitting on the edge of my bed one night and telling me how to break my window (with the miniature blonde-wood chair from my desk set) and escape in case of fire. I imagined myself hopping through knee-high snow in my nightgown; I tried to summon up the strength that such a task necessitated, and wondered if I ever could.
*
Five years later: on summer nights when high-winds rendered me too anxious for sleep, I sought comfort in the noise and light of television. Nestled on the plaid couch in our family living room, I focused my eyes on the screen and willed myself not to glance towards the far side of the room with its wide windows; beyond the peeling paint of those aged wood frames was the wide open sky, tinged an unnatural pink. In front, there stood a long table of heavy, antique wood which was laden with plants whose silhouettes were only just visible against the glass.
I remember the angry howl of the wind coming down the chimney and the ominous sight of skeleton branches dancing wildly against the clouds.
*
On another summer evening, in young-adulthood: walking through quiet neighborhoods with someone that I had feelings for, the mood casual yet confusing. As we meandered past quaint houses on lush, tree-lined streets, I passingly peeked into open windows; I wondered if the people who lived within were happy. As the sun set and nature turned cool grey and blue, I wanted to be inside the golden light of those bright homes and the life that they embodied.
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