And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
Yesterday, the sun fell into my condo. It was glorious. Every window just glowed.
Because I had my windows washed yesterday.
Is it a sign of getting old when you’re excited by your windows being washed?
But one of the reasons I fell in love with this place was the floor-to-ceiling windows on all three floors. I love the sun and I love the moon and I love light of any kind. In all 20 years of living here, I have never unrolled the blinds the condo came with (chosen by the board, they were, until recently, the only thing we were allowed to put on our windows). When the window washers left, I just wandered from floor to floor, room to room, and marveled.
I honestly don’t remember when the last time was that I had the windows washed. I know they haven’t been done since Michael’s accident, so that would put it at two years. During that time, my mind was on anything but the windows. Though even then, I would often stop in a patch of sunshine just to bask for a bit.
I was born in St. Louis, moved to northern Minnesota when I was six, and then to Wisconsin when I was twelve. I’ve always treated the sun as a friend. I played outside as often as I could, but never in dark places. I always hated the game hide and seek, both being a hider and a seeker. No matter which one I was, it involved darkness. In the house, I would set up my toys, especially Breyers model horses and a variety of Barbie-type dolls, in a patch of sunshine, and then move with the sun. I’ve never liked curtains or shades. Out of modesty, I put plantation shades in the bedrooms, but only on the lower half. At night, lying in bed, I have a full view of the moon passing by, and I’ve often fallen asleep in its silver glow.
During the time from Michael’s accident to now, I had to let some things go with the condo. At first, because I was over my head with things that had to be done for Michael, while still keeping up with AllWriters’. Mornings, meet with clients, afternoons, at the hospital or rehab, evenings, clients and classes and reading manuscripts. When he came home for a month, it was keeping up with teaching, but taking him to doctor appointments and meeting with the home health aides. Then he died.
Even sunshine couldn’t take me out of a dark place then, although I still sought it. Followed it, sat in it, soaked in it.
I even drive a convertible whenever I can, top down. It has heated seats, so until the weather drops below 50 degrees, that car is a sanctuary.
After Michael’s death, I went into a flurry of organizing the condo. Every cabinet and drawer was sorted through, cleaned out, donated, tossed out, or put away neatly. I was ridiculously proud of buying a new silverware organizer, but using it to organize batteries by their sizes. I know some people hang on to their spouse’s things for a long time, but I didn’t. I went through his closets, one that I called his hoarder’s closet, I found good homes for his collection of old-time radios. The off-site storeroom was an epic battle, as it contained mostly Michael’s things that he wouldn’t let go of. I hired someone to rip off the carpet runner from our stairs leading from the second floor to the third, and had the wood refinished. I got rid of the stairlift I’d gotten for him, to get him from the first to second floor.
Of course, what I found after this flurry was finished was that the condo felt empty. Michael wasn’t there.
But lately, the windows really began to bother me. Even if it was a clear day, I felt like it was foggy. It’s been nice on and off recently, and so I’ve been able to open the windows and deck doors, and that was a relief.
So I decided it was time to come out of the fog.
It’s not an easy thing to wash these windows. Michael and I attempted to do it together once and decided never again. Hang out a third story window, leaning backwards to try to reach that upper right corner, when down below, there’s only the sidewalk in the front or the blacktopped parking lot in the back? No thank you. So I organized a few of the other condo dwellers (the window washers charge us less if we do several units at a time) and arranged it.
And then it was done. The sun fell in and I felt like I was renewing a relationship with an old friend.
Olivia was here, helping me keep an eye on the cats, making sure they didn’t decide to leap out a window or run out of a door. When the windows were finished, she claimed she didn’t see any difference.
I sure did. The fog was lifted. And I fell in love with this place all over again. I’ve lived here longer than any other place in my life.
It’s Home. A place of memories and events and time spent sitting in the sun or falling asleep in the moonlight.
(There is, by the way, a poem in The Birth Of A Widow about cleaning out the hoarder’s closet.)
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
