The House With Narrow Windows

On a languid street corner near the old high-school was a house I was always fascinated by. It was a large house, with peeling paint, and narrow windows revealing bits and pieces of the rooms within. On the bus in the morning I could see a warm, incandescent glow illuminating a cramped kitchen, in the afternoon I could see the faded lettering on the sign out front. It may have once been a restaurant, or a small hotel, or some other business that had long since fled.

I imagined who must live there. An old man, worn by time. An austere life, a life defined by struggle. I imagined how grown up I would feel living that imagined life. I felt sad that it wasn’t mine.

On a forgotten corner of a narrow street that crossed the local bike path sat a house with narrow windows. I always thought it was an apartment. When I was young I took my bike out at the blue hour and imagined who must live there. A warm light glowed through the blinds, cutting through the cool blue atmosphere. I was barely a teenager then.

I imagined the young professional that must live there. He had game nights with his friends, he listened to grown up music and lived a grown up life. I imagined how mature and liberated I would feel living in a place like that. I felt sad that it wasn’t mine.

I got older. My life changed. My perspectives changed. I saw that house near the school again, and it looked run-down. I saw that house on the path, and it looked sterile. Where did the warmth retreat to? Where did that young professional go? Where did the austere old man end up? Did they ever live in those places?

I have never met the owners of these places. I don’t know their name nor their face. I never want to. The people who live there I already know and the lives they live give me life.