If I were made of glass

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I could be, all at once, an eye, an ear, a nose and a mouth.

I could witness the rise and fall of the sun and the moon.

I could be in tune with the lightness of blue, the sweetness of pink and the heaviness of grey.

I could absorb and radiate heat or frost under shivering cold.

I could reflect the dance of the clouds and the glittering of the stars.

I could allow the icy breeze of a winter night to filter through.

I could rejoice in the smells of spring, its blooming flowers and its freshly cut grass.

At sunset, I could marvel at the murmuration of ten thousand starlings.

At night, I could listen to the chant of owls and stare into their yellow eyes.

At sunrise, I could awake to the songs of robins and nightingales.

I could be pierced by dreaming eyes and tickled by fingers drawing in condensation, hearts, flowers and smiles.

I could be visited by flies, and bees, and ladybirds and butterflies.

I could fantasise about the departures or destinations of all these birds and planes and – having been freshly cleaned - I could, sadly, accidentally knock down a bird from time to time.

I could be trapped between curtains of silk and rain, and I could, occasionally, be beaten by hailstone.

I could watch the time and seasons pass, the clouds turning pink, purple and indigo, the green leaves turning yellow and red, and the rain turning to snow.

On special nights, I could glitter under multicolour fireworks.

On summer days, I could frame children playing in the garden, with their mothers reading, painting or sunbathing in a corner.

 

And they could look back at me. Through me, they could see the walls and ceiling wallpapered with white peonies on a powder pink background, twin beds upholstered with a vibrant red fabric decorated with African dancers, cream coloured fringed quilted bedspread embroidered with flowers, bedside lamp shades made of natural raffia and adorned with Tahitian shell necklaces, an antique sunburst mirror and a hand painted ceramic vase filled with wildflowers over a white marble fireplace, an heirloom wardrobe overflowing with vintage family clothes, a colourful and exotic carpet, and floor cushions embroidered with yet more and more flowers.

 

But I am made of stone. And whatever things I might conceal – broken objects or rejected memories, covered with webs of dust or spiders - they will never know. No light can enter. I cannot see colours or fireworks. I have no sense of season or time. I can feel neither hot nor cold. I cannot hear the bird songs nor smell the freshly cut grass. I cannot reflect the dance of the clouds or the glittering of the stars. I am just a blind window.