The Window Perch

Awakened by the squabble of ravenous gulls, cries of laughter and ocean breeze, I find myself drawn to your window perch. In truth it’s only a sill now, empty with chipped paint and splintering seams.

As color sets over the western horizon I realize how long I’d slept, how much time I’d lost trying to remember you. It was only six months ago when you rode your bike past my beach-side loft, but lately it felt like time was standing still.

I’ll never forget when you stumbled onto my yard for the first time, with your aviator sunglasses and a Star Wars bag slung from one shoulder. You looked like trouble right from the start, but something about you already had me caught hook, line, and…

You’d wanted directions. I remember almost laughing aloud at that. You said you were looking for the Elton John concert, the gig not even two blocks down. All I did was point. I’ll likely never know what piqued your interest, but the next day you appeared on my doorstep again.

I caught myself smiling when I opened the door to find that it was you. “Lost?” I quipped smartly. “Not anymore.” You assured, matching wit for wit without the slightest hesitation. That was one of the things I loved most; you were so easy to talk to.

I had thought you a tourist, here for a week and gone the next. But it wasn’t for a few days that I became aware that you had family here, and that you’d be staying for the entire summer. It was just long enough to get to know you and short enough to leave me wanting.

We grew comfortable with one another and I welcomed your presence around my little place, a two-story loft with barely enough living space to accommodate one- but we made it work. I miss the mornings when I’d awaken to a soft tapping, open my eyes and see you perched on the sill of my window. “Hey you.”

When I was a young girl I had always imagined a happiness like that. A walk hand in hand, ice cream cones dripping into the sand. Jamming to red hot chili peppers on the drive to nowhere, stolen moments around corners and behind closed doors.

I often remember those days like a dream that may or may not have happened, a fond memory.


Written By: Hollie Barringer, 2015




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