A Window of Mystery with a Story to Tell

I love this picture.  From the first time I saw it in Victoria's album, I knew I had to have it.  I am not a person who is drawn to the new, expensive or lavish things.  I can admire them for their beauty, but they have yet to exist long enough to have a history, a past or memories. All of that is in the future, for the making. For other pictures, 40 years down the road, when they will at last have a story to tell.

I like to look at a picture and see a story, whether it is true or not. Hearing the actual story would be even better, although seldom possible. This is where the imagination---one of the greatest gifts a person can have comes in to play.  With a good imagination, a person is never alone, there is always an adventure lurking behind a curtain.  A mystery waiting to be written, because  of a door left ajar where only a smidge of light can be seen, and a touch of red, barely visible but not out of sight, is leaking down the wall and on to the floor.


When I saw the picture above all sorts of stories ran through my mind.  I noticed how old the window seems to be. When damaged, it was repaired instead of replaced. Caulked, painted roughly and unevenly  with a shade of Dutch blue. The person who lived here did the best he could, with what he had.

The blue paint is chipped in places, weathered in others, showing the uneven painting in the soft gray daylight.  Bars have been added to the large window, 
either for protection or decoration.  The owner used them as a trellis for the pink roses he grew.

Partial white door frames are seen in background. A black and white cat keeps guard at the window. The cat is watching something intently from the ledge. Alert, uneasy.


As I look at this card, a story forms. It is of a brick apartment building, occupied only on the second floor, one apartment, all the other apartments are vacant and have been for quite awhile. 

An old man lives alone, taking care of his deceased wife's roses and her cat. He is used to being alone, so is the cat. Both are used to the rattling of glass and falling bricks, as the bombs continue to rearrange his home. They are used to the uncertainty of life, however they will never get used to the fear the noise instills in them.

It is in Croatia, fifteen years in the past. A war is raging outside.  Piles of rubble and rock block the outside entrance to many places. People venture out after dark. The old people delay as long as possible, the trip for food and water.  There is no electricity. There is little help for anyone.

The cat is his only companion. His wife named her Nonia, he makes sure she eats.  He shares his water with the roses. Something beautiful has to survive this carnage. He takes a chance every time he places the roses in the window, they have to have light and yet they are a sign of life.  Dangerous for all, but he is long passed caring. Scared yes, caring not even a little bit. He lives for the roses, the cat and his memories.  Eventually, the war ends. Life goes back instead of forward for the old man.


The roses are permanently placed in the window, where they grow and bloom easily.   The cat and the old man will never be the same, but they manage, they cope. They continue to live in fear.


If the eyes are the "windows of the soul", why are windows so important in that quote?   They are the fragile panes keeping the world at large. They protect, they invite and they conjure stories from strangers.....and I love them.

What is my fascination with old windows and doors?  It is hard to explain, but I feel it when I see them. They have withstood the elements, attacks, bugs, birds and humans of every mindset.

I like to imagine the stories known from the outside and the secrets held within. I look at them while my mind wanders, sooner or later a story will form.