It was cold in her school, she remembered, even though she never blamed the broken window placed facing her. It was always broken and was never fixed. Innocently childish she believed it was designed that way. The little girl grew up looking at the sun shining between that lost piece of glass. She would close her eyes and wait for the warm sunlight heating her face.
The window was unusually long and stood gigantic in front of her. Whoever designed that window had the vision of light the same as her. At that innocent time, she didn’t mind the broken part that time to time would remind her how cold and fearful the winter was. Her parents never knew about the window and the school never noticed such detail. The little girl never spied on the window. It was her secret. She thought it was a bond between her and the sun.
The light around her face gave her the advantage of beauty. She was never aware of that since her feeling of beauty was selfless. The inconvenience of the broken window would rebel over her small body at times, leaving her hands cold. She would find refuge in her music playing the old piano placed next to the window. During those cold winter days, she believed *Bach, was her enemy. It was the winter’s wind traveling through that empty space of glass. Playing Bach was the most difficult thing to do when her hands were cold. He must have never had a broken window, she thought every time she tried to play his music.
The piano teacher, a beautiful red hair woman, would take her hands and warm them with hers. Ok not Bach, she answered pleasantly, how about *Chopin?
She wasn’t sure she liked playing piano or wanted to stay warm, either way, she learned to play very well. Her melody would travel outside the window and mingle with the air ignoring the cold or warm day. The window gave her light she gave back sound. That’s all she could give.
She saw her body grow to look at the glass’ reflection, yet the broken window never changed. The change was abstract and bias. It wasn’t fair that only she transformed. On the window, the change was static and stubborn. The more she grew the more she pitied it. She wasn’t sure who was an orphan, her or the window. Yet, betray was not what she had in mind. She was the only friend that window had. The only one that noticed the broken piece. She learned to see light through that window and a small rebellious freedom. It was her secret escape combined with her imagination and the sound of her melody. She loved that place. It was her playground.
The last day of school was a farewell. Sentimental to her memories she looked through the window for the last time. For a while, she placed her hand touching the glass leaving her fingerprints as she did every year. The glass had preserved her hand prints since the first grade. At that moment she saw her childhood reflecting back through the glass. She wasn’t sure it was the glass or her that had preserved the diary of her young life. Either way, she was happy. Growing up was a funny journey. Before leaving, as a lost lover she left attaching a white piece of paper with beautiful handwriting:
Broken Window
*Johann Sebastian Bach, 1685-1750, German composer.
*Fredric Chopin, 1810-1849, Polish composer.
