an ode to windows at night

Ever since I was little, I’ve loved the sight of warm lights glowing in strangers’ windows. I remember feeling intrigued even by the blur I saw from my parents’ car when they picked me up from late basketball practice.

I’ve always dreamt of the little rituals and routines unfolding inside. I could almost hear the clinking of their silver cutlery and sense the smell of distant, imaginary soups. Would they discuss their day. Would the tablecloth be spotless while children raced and slid down the corridor as parents yelled for the third time “dinner’s ready”.

Would they see the same people I saw walking to their night shifts like a band of birds heading south behind their glowy curtains. The small talk, the distant wingbeats fading like the light.

I remember wondering how these lives could be real. I remember the tinkling in my stomach when thinking of the strangers I would never meet.

When I was little, I dreamt of these moments of peace. The incandescent light of a muted TV lighting up a couple too tired to go to bed. A forgotten, steamy cup waiting inside a microwave as everybody said goodnight behind the walls; the sound of closing doors. An old cat purring near an old electric heater. A wrinkled book resting on a night table, waiting to be discovered.

The universes hidden behind strangers’ windows.