My Window

I spent the night in this dress, sandwiched in an economy class seat in a pressurized capsule that transported me across the Atlantic. In France, in the early morning hours, Paul lugged my suitcase up the narrow wooden steps to our third floor apartment, and I pulled up a chair to my favorite window in all of Paris. Here I’ve watched a man stop daily to feed the pigeons. I’ve watched young Parisians open cafes and close them, all in the same day’s work. I’ve watched the rain pour down over polka dot umbrellas, and I’ve leaned out cautiously to witness a quarrel in the street. This is my window; the one that opened my eyes and taught me to see.

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