The post for which you, the lovely readers, chose the inspiration will be up soon. In the mean time, please enjoy this short story.
It was night. The sky was cloudy and dark. No light shown down on the old 1920s house. No moon cast its silver beam upon the roof tops. No stars twinkled outside the dark closeted windows. There was no sound. No wind rustled the leafless branches. No squirrels darted across the asphalt away from stalking cats. The streets were deserted; the cars, parked, were dark and empty.
The windows of the jazz era house were old and fragile. A small, almost imperceptible, tapped the glass. It was as if it had been struck by a wrecking ball. The panes blew into millions of bits of sparkly treated sand. The windows were trying to return to what they were before. To what they had been before they had been captured, cooked, smacked and molded until they were thin breakable barrier meant to keep the outside from coming in. They were expected to keep sturdy against the most violent of storms. Shield against the cold of winter and the heat of summer. But the sand had become something it wasn’t meant to be, something it couldn’t be forever. It was only a matter of time before a breeze came along the windows could not keep out. It wouldn’t matter the strength, they had never been thanked. After all that time protecting and staying put. After all they had done to shield and help the inhabitants of the house. After every storm, every heat wave, every heavy gust, they had never once been treated kindly for stopping the outside from coming in. They had been battered, hidden from view and the inhabitants didn’t seem to care. Why would they?
They were just windows after all. Of course they exploded on that one too many gusts it had to endure. They had been something they weren’t for so long, it was only a matter of time. It shouldn’t have been a surprise for those who lived in the old family house, but it was. And now that the windows were moving back toward sand there was nothing blocking out the outside. The inhabitants would have to deal. The millions of window bits were scattered upon the ground. They were closer to how they should be and after a while they would be sand again. They would be what they were, picking up the sun’s warmth and transferring it to the people around them. However, they were still the shattered window. A cloud moved ever so slightly, a trickle of star light drifted down to land of the millions of shards. They lit up, better than a flat sheet of glass ever could, to mirror the wonders of the glittering stars above.
I have been known to tell my house good-bye when I leave. And I do have grateful feelings for the protection from rain, from the cold, from the things that I want to remain outside. I am off to thank my windows!
Thanks for reading! I’m grateful for all those things as well!