Member-only story
Through the Glass
Life can be a (window) pane
In this old house, the window glass is rippled. It looks like lizard skin or the confusion of prints in the sand at a waterhole. It offers privacy — of sorts — by breaking me into shards of colour.
In the few minutes of dusk, when the sunlight takes the longest path through the sky, the windows glow like stained glass. And at night, the red and white of passing traffic washs across the sculpted pane. (There is so much passing traffic.)
As I type this — as I try to work — I am entertained by copper-winged moths that flutter and dance as they try to reach the light, and by the spectral geckos that stalk and intercept them. The moths are too skittish or too big for the geckos, but the reptiles persist. They creep and lunge and mostly miss, or they squabble ferociously until all the prey has fled. When I press my finger to the glass, the moths flee. The geckos remain, concentrating on other things. Their focus is better than mine.
