One day they will say, “Oh, I remember her. She was the one in the window, the shadow of her silhouette sad as she stared intently in the distance, seemingly waiting for freedom or a breath of fresh air. It’s as if she was locked in a prison.”
How did I become the girl in the window? Waiting, watching, longing, lingering. How has this become a pattern of grief that has become routine? Each step towards the window ignites a spark in my heart that maybe, just maybe, what I hope to see will be on the other side of the window pane. It’s the only hope I have to hold onto these days. I feel trapped by the pull to the window, knowing in my mind it won’t offer my deepest desire, but optimistically hoping in my heart that my mind will be wrong for once. When I don’t see what I long for, I wait. I watch. I walk away ashamed of my pathetic naivety. I walk away with the reminder that the one I long for is not clinging to a window with the same level of desperation, is not coming for me because he longs for my presence with the same measure of desire, and is not carrying the burden of hope with the same pain towards the thought of detaching.
I am alone in the window. No one is coming. No one is coming for me. He is not coming. The present reality of his absence as I look out the window has become an all-too familiar stab of pain in my heart. His presence would be a miracle, and that is what the girl in the window has wanted her whole life.
I cannot turn off my faithfulness, hope, loyalty, commitment, and love even though I know the absence of them would eliminate the attachment to the window. Instead, I take one step after the other, the only movement in my current state, towards the window, and I feel the grief of seeing the empty parking spot and watching the many cars pass by, oblivious to the pain of the one observing.
Yes, I’m the girl in the window. The hopeful one. The delusional one. The broken one. The watchful one. The one waiting for her breath of fresh air. The one praying at that same window.
I don’t know what day my heart will refuse to step towards that window, but it’s not today.
Today, I accept the painful persona of the girl in the window.
My Mind Vortex 