Chapter 21 - THE FIRST WINDOW
Ava was twenty-three when she moved into her first apartment alone.
I inspected the windows.
Twice.
She noticed.
“Mom.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I stepped back.
“The lock works.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She smiled.
“Thank you.”
Trauma had made windows symbols.
For Ava, they were mostly windows.
That was progress I had to protect by not turning every frame into an altar.
She chose a high-rise.
Seventeenth floor.
I nearly fainted when she told me.
“Why so high?”
“View.”
“Seriously?”
“Mom.”
I laughed.
Then cried later.
She invited me for dinner.
Opened the window three inches.
Cold air came in.
My body tightened.
She closed it without making a point.
No ceremony.
No forced exposure.
Kindness.
Later, she opened it again while cooking.
May you like
I stayed.
The body learns slowly.
