I wonder what they think, those folks in their cars, idling at the stoplight every morning outside of our front door. What do they think of that little boy in his window. He’s sometimes clothed, often not, but almost always there. Calling out the colors of the cars, announcing the arrival of “big trucks” and pointing out the trees. It is the first thing that he does when he wakes and it is where I find him, bedroom curtain wrapped around him like a cape, when I go in each day to greet him.
He loves his bedroom window and he breaks my heart when he turns at my entrance and whispers “outside?”
It is a question so full of hope and tinged with resignation. He doesn’t get out much but when I nod my head yes, and say, “Today you have school!” he springs to life, shaking off the trance from the passing cars and whatever he thinks about when he watches them pass by.
Years ago I passed by a house I had seen dozens of times or more, but one time I drove by and saw that in the front window, drapes pulled open, was an elderly man in a hospital bed. I’d no previous knowledge of who lived there, never spotted anyone in or around the property, but on that day I saw him there, the sun soaking into his frail body. It startled me, the appearance of the old man in such a fragile state, and I always looked to see if he were still there when I went by again. For awhile he was….and then he wasn’t.
I still look over when I pass and I remember.
I wonder if the people outside of Corrigan’s window look for him now, on their way into the city for work, and miss him when he isn’t there. Years from now will they remember this house, and that window, and the sweet little boy up there taking it all in?