Cindy’s Bio:

Cindy Haynes has written enough stories, essays and mostly children’s tales to fill a very large wardrobe that might just open in the back to some far away time and place. She would rather be with herself and her imagination and her writing than anywhere else.  Inspiration comes from friends, daydreaming out a window at the garden and from snatches of life such as walking by a limousine recently in NY City and seeing a beautiful woman in the back seat crying, while a man in a tuxedo standing outside caressed her cheek.  It is easy to live the writing life when your senses take in all about you.

When not writing, Cindy runs, reads and takes wonderful trips in a 19’ RV named Van Cliburn with her husband Bill and way-too big dog Sadie.

Windows of Change

By Cindy Haynes

 

We have windows in our kitchens that face each other across the road. I know when you wake up and you know when I have gone to sleep. You knew when I left for my classroom for all of those years and I knew when you left for the hospital and which shift you had each week. If a visitor arrives at either house, the car has to drive up one of our driveways that are parallel to each other. We both have dogs and the dog’s barking let us know to go to the kitchen window and watch to see who is visiting and imagine why. When your children played, I could see everything they were doing from my window. Once, you ran out and scooped my child from the road because I had lost track of the seconds and he toddled out there. You had seen him from your window. We smile at each other’s holiday lights and goofy decorations; things like that stupid giant stuffed Easter Bunny you situate each year so I can smile. I know when your LLBean clothes arrive and you know when I carry in a case of beer. I wonder how many times I moved my bamboo plant and little green bottles off the sill so that I could shine that one window with Windex. I did not want to miss a single thing in your life.

The years have flown. I still watch for you. In the morning, you sort of hobble out to put the dogs in their kennel. Then you throw corn to the fowl. I see you put your hands on your hips and bend back to look for that hawk in the sky that wants to eat your chicks. Then you climb the stairs to go in for your coffee. You called me once to say that a delivery truck came while I was away for two days and did I get the package. And you were concerned because someone, who’s name you cannot remember, got out of his car in my driveway and seemed to look over the house. You came over and asked him if you could be of assistance. He said he had googled me and was in town for business. We had gone to high school together he said and he just wanted to say hi. Apparently you both talked about dogs for awhile but you forgot to have him repeat his name. I still wonder who it was. I watch you lean into that huge old snow blower and you wave to me when I plod down for the mail. If I forget to tell you I’m away for a day, you see the daily paper sitting too long and you come and read it.

Yesterday your driveway was full of cars. I didn’t have to wonder why. I got up and showered and dressed in my Sunday best. I drank some coffee but could not face cereal. I stood with my cup and stared out my window at your house. Your sister Sadie came out with her husband Bill. They were followed by your nephews. Then Debra, your best friend came out of the house with her children who were raised with your children. Finally, you came out with two of your adult children and you all filled the cars. I sighed and picked up my purse filled with tissues. Your youngest son Josh came up my long driveway and waited while I walked slowly out. A train of cars went out of our driveways and down our hill.

Today I stood at the window with my coffee. You stood outside by the barrel that you fill with nasturtiums every summer. You had your watering can in your hand. Suddenly you dropped the can and slumped over the barrel. Your body started heaving, causing an orange profusion of waving flowers and I dropped my cup into the sink. It shattered and I put my hands to my eyes. The tears flowed freely as I mourned with you the loss of your oldest child, Doug. I sat down hard on one of my bar stools and sobbed. And I knew then. I knew that the windows that had brought us such joy and laughter were filled with grief and that they would never shine for each of us quite the same again.

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