Cracked white paint ran its way along the wooden sill. Clouded glass and small wire boxes filled in the small box. The square sat amidst white walls, a perfect place for it. A desk was slightly to the left of it, as well as chair. This was the window in all of its glory.  Everyday at precisely 4:00 pm a woman with a rather well worn pair of eyes would come to enjoy a view from this place. She would glance outside, see the doorman pass, the kids scream and play, and see the leaves delicately move in the wind. From this window the sky was viewed, in all its various moods. Everything ranging from the harsh strikes of lightning to the soothing drops of rain, and the warm glowing sun. 

Of course this is not all she had ever seen through this window. No, in fact, she often sits wistfully recalling sweet memories to her mind and replaying the experiences vividly. She remembers the day she sat staring out the window, waiting patiently. As she felt her mind jumping in excitement, just waiting for him to come home.  Seeing her father walking through the door and throwing herself into his warm, welcoming arms. She remembers times of sorrow, seen through the window. The bitter fall day that still left a bad taste in her mouth, when the men came to her door. As she watched them march up to the steps, lips sewed in somber lines. The men that told her, she would never see her mother again, for the disease had taken her.

But not all things seen through the window were so terrible or important as that. For there were days when she sat, head resting in her hands, with boredom. Waiting for her friends to arrive, and for fun to begin. There were days where the window framed a mailman, hurriedly running from his truck and dropping by the mail, which contained a special parcel for a birthday coming up.

The window was a place where she had always gone to, just to observe. A place where she had glanced fleetingly, stared wonderingly, restlessly watched and sorrowfully looked out of. Many seasons had come and gone, the fall fiery leaves, the pure white snow, the youthful sprouts, and the withered yellow grass. Years had passed; buildings had been torn down and built. All of the events framed by the window.

Everyday she will continue to watch, wait and listen. Though life is slower now and not so much is happening, there is still much for her to see. A small spider begins to weave a translucent shimmer of web down the pane. A glimmer fills her eyes, and life is surrounding her, as she sees it from the window.