Our small street is resting in the warmth of golden hour.
I’m kneeling on an upturned laundry basket, watching from my small window at my classmates from a million miles away. More muted yellow spills onto my walls as I open the window further.
I know I look odd. Creepy, maybe. Staring at them like that. My knees ache on the wicker and I shift further so that I can see their young faces. They don’t know how happy they are as they chase each other.
I look down in resignation. There’s always teardrops on the windowsill.
I’m kneeling on an upturned laundry basket, watching from my small window at my classmates from a million miles away. More muted yellow spills onto my walls as I open the window further.
I know I look odd. Creepy, maybe. Staring at them like that. My knees ache on the wicker and I shift further so that I can see their young faces. They don’t know how happy they are as they chase each other.
I look down in resignation. There’s always teardrops on the windowsill.
