"Come Away From The Window"

I have French neighbors with the cutest little doll of a 2-year-old girl and this morning she was peeking at me out her window, as I dragged the garbage out for trash and recycle day. I'm blond like her.

I have tight, washed out blue jeans on and a navy cotton teeshirt on, bright pink flip-flops, my toes are lacquered bright pink, my fingers too, happy jellybean bright pink, as they clutch the black trash bags, she's looking at me and at first, I don't know it but then I look up and see her face. She's not staring, she's nearly memorizing me. Seriously, she doesn't smile, she's just intently watching my every move.

Writer. She's a writer. I think to myself, yes, and I smile.

I think of me at the window. Me at the window at 2, at 3, at 13, at 23, at 33, at 43 ... I was always watching. I liked to watch the blondes, they seemed to know their way around.

I look away, rearrange the trash bags, then turn back, she's gone.

In her house, I imagine her mother saying what mine would say sometimes -- something I hated and something that made me know they thought I was a little strange -- "come away from the window" they would say.