Through the Window

Cherry Lane, a brick-paved street just off Lincoln Avenue, was silent for the night. The houses are stilled, their inhabitants hunkered under blankets pulled tight against the creeping chill. The streetlamps cast a dull, yellow glow, illuminating a world where once-manicured lawns, bushes, and trees are retreating into slumber. Above, beyond the lamps’ reach, the waning moon hung low, though hidden behind a veil of clouds.

The third lamppost on the left flickered weakly, standing sentinel before a modest keep. The driveway was cracked, as it had been for years, and the house it led to showed its age—its paint chipped, its roof battered by seasons past. The window on the left of the house has its curtains drawn apart, allowing the streetlamp’s glow to spill into a small room shared by two boys.

In that room, both boys had ever lived. It was a space that bent and transformed into the scapes of their imagination: the carpet became a scorching desert, a field of lava, or a maze of roadways; the beds shifted between mountaintops, prison cells, or fortresses. Their father built the shelves and the sturdy bedframes by hand, and their mother had long ago painted the walls the gentle blue of a robin’s egg. Grandma Joan helped them hang a poster of Mickey Mantle—the boys’ adopted favorite, handed down through stories by Grandpa Jim. On that night, the Sandman had held his hand.

“Carter, are you awake?” Charlie’s voice, soft and hesitant, broke the stillness, yet it spoke more peace than the dark.

“Yeah, I’m awake.”

“Why?”

“Not tired. Why are you awake?”

“I’m cold.”

As if aware of the murmuring, the heater clicked to life, pushing air through the vent accompanied by the faint aroma of burning dust—a dry, metallic smell.

“There,” Carter said, “it’ll start to warm up now.”

“But I don’t wanna wait for that,” Charlie whined. Then, in a more hopeful tone, asked, “Can I come over there?”

“But—” Carter began to protest, then sighed, abandoning the effort. “You can come over.”

The excitement was almost audible in Charlie’s movement as he tossed off his covers and darted to Carter’s bed, pressed snugly against the wall beneath the window. Carter shuffled closer to the wall, making room for Charlie, his hand brushing against the frozen windowpane as he maneuvered, its cold sting a stark contrast to the warmth below the blanket. Charlie slipped under the covers, pulling them to his chin and letting out a satisfied “ahh” as he nestled into the small bed.

“Are you comfortable?” Carter asked.

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Thank you.”

“Try to go to sleep now.”

Carter stared at the ceiling, his eyes beginning to flutter after a minute. He had nearly succumbed to sleep when Charlie’s voice again broke the silence—a whisper, though not lacking in volume. “Carter? Carter, look!”

Opening his eyes and following Charlie’s pointed finger, stretched just above his face, Carter turned toward the window.

“It’s snowing,” Charlie exclaimed, his voice alive with wonder, untouched by drowsiness.

Snowflakes drifted softly in the lamppost's yellow glow. At first, they were faint and scattered, like pale moths spiraling from the heavens. But soon, flakes turned to clumps, falling faster and settling quietly onto the ground. In minutes, the sidewalk and brick road glistened with an icy layer. A few moments more, and the blanket of snow swallowed the lawn, leaving only the tips of grass blades poking through.

“I wonder if they’ll close school tomorrow,” Carter said.

“No,” Charlie cried, “I don’t want them to.”

Carter turned to Charlie, who was propped on his elbow, staring out the window as though beholding the greatest film ever produced. “But we would get to stay home,” Carter reasoned.

“I don’t want to stay home. I want to play in the snow with Eric at recess.”

“If we stay home, I’ll play with you.”

Charlie’s gaze abandoned the window, his face lighting as he turned to Carter. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’ll play with you,” Carter said, his mouth curling into a small smile.

“And we can build a snowman?”

“Of course we can build a snowman. We’ll build him taller than dad, and we’ll call him—”

“‘Snowy’!”

“And we’ll call him ‘Snowy’.

“Will Dad get to stay home with us?”

“I don’t think so—Dad’s job is important.”

“Okay. But can Mom play with us too?”

“Maybe. I dunno—we’ll have to ask her tomorrow.”

“Oh, I hope she can.”

“Me too. But before we get to play in the snow, we have to go to sleep. And then, when we wake up, we can play whatever we want. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay… let’s go to sleep now.”

Carter rested his head and closed his eyes again, but moments later felt a gentle shake on his arm.

“Carter?” Charlie whispered. “I want to watch the snow.”

Carter sighed and sat up. “That’s fine, let’s switch sides.”

Once they had swapped places and settled back under the covers, the boys lay side by side, watching the snow fall. Charlie stared intently through the glass, willing the flakes to fall harder, while Carter watched their shadows dance softly across the opposite wall. It wasn’t long before sleep claimed them both—Charlie still facing the window, and Carter’s last thoughts full of quiet, falling snow.