That window had a great view.
The field stretched for several hundred yards to meet the woods, the heavens extending forever above them both.
I could often catch a glimpse of myself out there.
It annoys me now. I rarely look in that direction when I visit, every detail of the landscape having been etched in my mind years ago.
During the summer months, that window offered vivd rainbows set against blackened clouds and the hum and angry jolt of the bug zapper. From it I had a great view of the ant town my father crushed with his car each evening, prompting me to rebuild it every afternoon.
Through that window I would watch as my mom wiped the length of the clothesline with a wet paper towel before hanging laundry.
And it was through that window that I first caught sight of the boy who would become the man I married.
I spent my childhood at that window, my nose pressed against the screen in a poor attempt to expand my line of sight.