MRS. ASSELSTINE'S WINDOW

Trisha’s house stands three doors away from mine. On my way there, I wonder what games we’ll play today. Trisha’s a year older than me and always ready with great ideas.

On her doorstep, I ring the doorbell. While waiting, I press my nose against the single sidelight to the left, making fog on the exhale. Maybe a hard stare into the entryway will aid my friend’s quick arrival. 

Through the window, I see Trisha’s mom approaching, tall and thin like the glass in which she appears. She swings the door open and hovers several inches above me, doe eyed and made up, wearing heels, her blonde hair in a twist.

 

“Hi Mrs. Asselstine! Is Trisha available to play?”

She is a picture of exquisite beauty even on an ordinary day. How could her husband be stupiddumb enough to run away to marry someone else?

“Move away from the window. Your breath’s marking it up.” 

I take a step back, compliant. Even in her scolding, she is perplexingly perfect. Her lips are thin, sharp, even. I wish mine were like that too. 

Trisha comes and we bounce off her porch into our street.

“What do you want to do today?” I ask.

My friend stares at her bangs casually and shares some ideas. “How about tag? Or hopscotch? Or we could even draw with chalk”. 

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Those all sound like fun but my mind drifts to another place. A place where I am beautiful, welcomed in, and allowed to breathe.