Let us cherish our windows

I was reflecting on the essence of windows—the window in a room, facing a garden, a courtyard, or a street. This often square companion frames the seasons, people, the sky, and trees, its view constantly changing. How insignificant the paintings on our walls seem in the presence of a window.

Just yesterday, it framed the crimson maple of autumn, and today, snow falls thick and fast. Sometimes, a branch fills its corner, and tomorrow, a bird will perch on it. In the evenings, the sun sets deep within its embrace; in the mornings, a handful of golden rays pierce through from afar.

We owe so much to windows, for the way they welcome the last drops of sunlight into the corners of our homes, the way they craft shadows, the way they remind us, with the passing of a stranger, that life flows on, even when our hearts are heavy. Within these wooden, iron, and concrete walls, we have no choice but to befriend our windows.

I’m not rambling; it’s through these frames that we sometimes light a cigarette, exchange a glance with a neighbor’s child, or feel the rain and wind on our faces. It’s beside these windows that curtains dance, and the summer flies repeat their hypnotic hum.

You, looking at me with surprise, tell me truthfully—how often has your mind drifted far away beside a window, wrapped in the warmth of a memory, only to be pulled back by the call of a street vendor, reminding you that you’re still by that same familiar window, smoking away the moment?

Yet, windows, like blank canvases, quietly wait for a passerby to cross their threshold, for a tree to cascade its branches into view, for the wind to whirl a hat in its playful dance. Sometimes, they wait to blur the damp, foggy scenes, carrying our thoughts into the deep reverie of a memory.

Let us cherish our windows—unveiled, without judgment. Windows are reborn each day, transforming into poetry, mocking all the paintings in the world. Believe me, we are indebted to these generous windows, always open to the distant horizon.