Places with different views
The days have been cloudy here. They begin with a fog that rolls down the hills. I can see it in the morning from my window, not sure if it really is dawn or perhaps the approaching dusk. The sky is almost white and sometimes it feels like it is coming down on all of us, like a dome that arches above our heads; we couldn’t make it out if we tried. I wake up now, everyday, bracing myself for the greyness of outside, the kind of greyness that would settle into the Earth and stay for a long time to come, making itself comfortable between the edges of the plants in our gardens and the spaces between our bodies on the street and quiet words whispered into our pillows in the morning. And the grey makes the bright green chair standing in my neighbor’s window more radiant and my orange dress sway a little more forcibly in the wind. And I sit down and try to write in the same cafe every week, ordering the same sandwich that I know I like. At first, I settled down in front of a window where the sun shined through every day until slowly it became a looking glass into a world that gave me a sky that was more like one giant cloud.
The very absence of the sun makes me crave its rays even more, wondering if I shall not have the rain beating against my window every morning nor the sun’s sweet light, why I am stuck in the middle of a sky that looks the same at sunset and sunrise.
This is settling into newness; a sameness, a routine, the way that you find a pair of socks that were made for you to wear them on the days when comfort can be completely consumed. Or the way that a song, no matter how much the instruments stay the same ringing in our ears, give to us the realization that maybe while it will always remind us of a certain person, or place, or a smell, and sometimes all three, we never listen to it the same way twice. And the song comes to us in the form that we are in that day, and we are never the same person every time the same beat hits our ears, so familiar we almost forgot what we appreciated about it in the first place.
And Chile is like a favorite song. It comes to me every day though I am not the same person. Its beat hits my ears when I wake up, so familiar I almost forget to listen completely. And on the monotonous days that only seem so because the weather dampens the colors of everything that surrounds us, I think I will seek out the sun a little more closely so that I can see the bright yellow houses outside my window in my bedroom as if they were made from the sun themselves.
And then I decided to sit at a different couch, with a different window, with a view I had never really looked at. And the smallest bit of sun along the horizon peaked out from behind the clouds. I was sure that the sun was setting and its image reflected off of a window far away, bright, sure, disappearing.