Whispers of the Window
Not all who wander are lost,
Not all who are alone are lonely—
A mantra, a whisper, a fragment of truth
I’ve clung to time and time again.
This morning, I hear it anew,
As my husband steps into the grey dawn,
His shadow swallowed by the waiting world.
I stand at the single-pane window,
A soul in a run-down house
That creaks with the weight of lives before me.
The blinds fall like a curtain,
Cutting off the view but not the thoughts.
How many hands have brushed this same frame?
How many eyes have peered through this fragile glass?
How many hearts have beat alone
Within these walls, listening to their own silence?
The house speaks in whispers,
Its voice stitched together by echoes of time.
I can feel them—
The sorrow of a mother waiting for a soldier,
The joy of a child’s first steps across the warped floor,
The quiet ache of a man who worked himself to bone and dust.
Eight years I have called this place my own,
And yet, I am but a speck
In the endless stretch of its memory.
A drop in a bucket so vast,
It drowns my sense of permanence.
But still, I linger,
Bound to this house, this window, this life.
Not all who are alone are lonely—
I wonder if that’s what they told t
hemselves,
The ones who came before.
Not all who wander are lost,
Not all who are alone are lonely—
A mantra, a whisper, a fragment of truth
I’ve clung to time and time again.
This morning, I hear it anew,
As my husband steps into the grey dawn,
His shadow swallowed by the waiting world.
I stand at the single-pane window,
A soul in a run-down house
That creaks with the weight of lives before me.
The blinds fall like a curtain,
Cutting off the view but not the thoughts.
How many hands have brushed this same frame?
How many eyes have peered through this fragile glass?
How many hearts have beat alone
Within these walls, listening to their own silence?
The house speaks in whispers,
Its voice stitched together by echoes of time.
I can feel them—
The sorrow of a mother waiting for a soldier,
The joy of a child’s first steps across the warped floor,
The quiet ache of a man who worked himself to bone and dust.
Eight years I have called this place my own,
And yet, I am but a speck
In the endless stretch of its memory.
A drop in a bucket so vast,
It drowns my sense of permanence.
But still, I linger,
Bound to this house, this window, this life.
Not all who are alone are lonely—
I wonder if that’s what they told t
hemselves,
The ones who came before.