Chelsea's Window

Creativity, or anything else that requires energy, seems quite non-existent when some virus decides to take up residence in the human body. Making a commitment to myself many years ago, when life seemed very bleak, I have written and posted daily. Why do I continue? Because I have learned that bleakness or just a silly old virus, does not have to shut off an attempt at creative genius. Did I just say genius? That can’t be right. I must have just  meant ‘creativity’.  In an effort to subvert my stodgy sinusitis, I reverted to finding a stem from <www.writingexercises.co.uk>. I have used this tactic before and found that my pen travels quite easily into story. Not an especially good story, but a story none the less.

Chelsea's Window

‘There was something not quite right about the window.’ It was as it had always been. A nice little window to the right at the top of the stairs. Chelsea could look out at the world in this private little space. An alcove shaped by the bannister created this charming little nook. A little oak writing desk faced the outside world, so when Chelsea’s pen stopped moving, she could watch the comings and goings outside. Visitors coming down the gravel road, their dust signalling a large or small vehicle. Dogs racing out to greet welcome visitors or to bark at strangers. The slanting sun rays through the trees that lined the road, whether early morning or late afternoon. Chelsea made sure to keep this little space and her desk tidy and clean so her mother wouldn’t make her move back into her bedroom. She always vacuumed the rug, including the stairs. She kept the trailing green fern on the oak plant stand watered and trimmed. Chelsea liked to call it her office.

From this quaint vantage point and to the side of the trees, Chelsea could see trains slipping across the horizon and disappearing behind undulating landscape. And the clouds. Oh, the clouds that changed the sky constantly from tiny drifts of ‘horses tails’, cotton ball puffs or slate grey banks of thunder clouds. She loved it all. But, there was something just not quite right about the window. And then Chelsea saw it. She would have to tell her father. In the bottom left hand corner there was a tiny crack. Just a chip really, but tracings of lines were spreading outward. If her mother had hung the curtains she planned, Chelsea would never have seen it. Her heart gave a lurch because she knew what her father would say. She had heard it all before. Every spring. ‘If anything ever happens to that window, I’ll board it up and be done with climbing up and down the ladder!” Chelsea’s dad was the one who had to wash the window every spring after Jack Frost and his paintbrushes had melted away. His paintings were delicate and beautiful, but unfortunately, he brought tiny bits of dirt and dust along. With a sigh, Chelsea realized that the cracks forming were reason enough for the window to be boarded up. And the cracks were letting in cold air. Another of her father’s blusterings whenever a door was left open. ‘I’m not heating up the outdoors, you know!’

Twelve year old Chelsea set down her pen, closed her journal and went downstairs with a last look at the beautiful outside. ‘Dad, there’s a crack in the window that looks kind of scary. Does it have to be fixed or will it be ok?’

Her dad put down his mug of coffee, grinned from ear to ear and said ‘Finally! Now I can get the job done! Viola, you’d best put some more coffee on. The workmen will be here pretty soon.’ 

‘But, dad, I just told you about the crack! How can the workmen be here already?’ But she had already seen the dust of work vans and heard the dogs barking. 

‘Cheer up. honey. I’ve known about that crack for a long time. The workmen are glaziers. Glaziers do glass repair and replacement. We can finally get a proper double paned window in there so I don’t have to heat up the outdoors and you can keep your little window on the world.

“A morning-glory at my window satisfies 

me more than the metaphysics of books.”

~ Walt Whitman