There is a sunny window in the house overlooking my house. A very sunny window. A bright planter with vividly radiant zinnias adorn this window. Every single day, this window brightly dons the molten golden sun on itself, the iron bars creating a sharp interplay of black and yellow. The sun has never stopped to pour its liquid gold on the bars, and the scarlet zinnias have never stopped to complement the sunny hue. Every morning when I wake up and look outside, the sunny window is there, bright and strong like the early sunflower soaking in the sunny goodness all around.
I somehow seem to love the look of this house as many times as my eyes flit across in the open. My living room faces the living room of that house, and at the corner of that room, I can see a dining table. What attracts me the most about that corner is a nondescript white vase that comes alive with jubilant flowers every morning. As many times as I look at the house or just stare outside from my living room, I catch myself looking at that vase and the two flowers nested comfortably in it. There is an attractive mystery about the flowers that is both lovely and colorful and that arrests my attention without even me knowing it.
And that makes me think about what kind of people live there, and eat at that table every day.
Flowers on the table. And the sunny window. They frame the beautiful house for me. The house calls me and tells me that I can’t reach it, can’t be in it, and perhaps, thats what makes me like it more.
One short vacation, and I come back to see the planter missing, the zinnias missing; only some pigeons cooing in the empty corners of the house.
The flowers on the table were gone; but the sunny window remained. Alone.