From My Window

2 windows face each other, with the cold street below as an only separation.

From my window, I gaze out silently.
Below, a lone figure gazes up at the window parallel to mine.





He calls out to his children. Voice soothing like spring rain. The children hear him. Footsteps can be heard, as small round faces peek out of the window. At the sight of their father, the children break out in huge smiles. They scurry back inside, only to be seen toppling down the stairs moments later as they rush into their father's loving arms.



I witnessed this scene from my window every Friday night, as a tear ran down my cheek, and a warm feeling swelled in my heart.





Fast forward 6 years.






Two windows face each other.

Below, a lone figure gazes upwards. I hear his voice softly resound. Cold Silence. A window curtain or two swings shut.




The father has come to pick up the children. He calls out, but they do not heed to his call.
Instead, they leave him to pick up the remnants of a heritage they've so blatantly thrown away.





From my little place at my window, a tear of sadness rolls down my cheek, yet a heavy stone of hope fills the crevices of my heart. For still, there, standing amongst the shadows, a father stands, eyes gazing upward. Calling. Waiting for someone to heed the call.