The Warming of the Window Pane

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The Warming of the Window Pane

A Tale of Loss and Recovery

For my friends Milli and Fish.

It was Christmas Eve as I once more sat in my favorite chair by the large picture window in the living room of my old family home, just as I have always done as far back as I can remember. I’d sat there so many Christmases that it had become a kind of tradition for me. I stared out the window watching the big wet flakes of snow that drifted slowly down as they swirled through the light cast by the lantern on the front porch, landing gently on the window sill or falling on the glass itself only to melt away, leaving wet streaks in their wake. The view, the snow and the chair felt so familiar and everything seemed so right that, for the moment, I could almost forget the loss of the past year. Drawing my legs up close, I settled back into the warm depth of my old friend, noting how faded the material had become over the years and how much softer it had grown through the years we had shared together looking out at drifting snow. Somehow though, it seemed so much smaller now than those first years together, but then I reminded myself that it wasn’t the chair’s fault, it was still just as big and overstuffed as ever, its arms just wide, and the back just as tall as it had ever been. It was I that had changed, having grown bigger through the years.

I let my thoughts drift back through the years to the time when I had finally been big enough to climb up into the vast expanse of its brightly colored seat without assistance, remembering the thrill of finally conquering its monstrous proportions to settle back and tuck my small frame into the corner where the cushion met the vertical surface of the arm rest. I thought about how I had tilled my head as far back as I could to follow the contour of the chairs broad, tall back as it rose up ever so high until it seemed that another inch more and it would brush the ceiling so high above me. How gloriously big and comfortable it had seemed and how marvelous the view from its dizzying height above the living room floor. I remembered too, how, if I stood tippy-toe on the cushion and leaned way out over the armrest I could just reach the window pane with my outstretched arm. Oh! How deliciously cool the glass had felt against my finger tips, sending little shivers of delight rushing up my arm and down my back! I‘d let fingers linger there for a moment, then retract my hand and transfer the coolness to my cheek, till it would quickly warm my fingers, then repeat the whole wonderful process over and over again.

As I sat there with my memories I reached out once more to let my fingertips rest against the glass, only to discover, much to my dismay, that instead of being cool to the touch as it should have been, it now felt warm and uninviting! Quickly I retracted my arm and stared with dismay at my hand. Something was terrible wrong! I brought my fingers to my cheek and was surprised to discover they felt cool, just as they should have, yet the glass had felt unmistakably warm. “How could this be?” I wondered. So raising my other hand to my cheek I discovered that it too felt cool. I repeated the process of the touching the glass, first with one hand then the other but always with the same results, the glass felt warm but my fingers always felt cold against my cheek. I looked around the room in the hopes of discovering what could have changed, yet everything appeared as it should. The family Christmas tree was in the corner where it always stood each year, the array of bright ornaments the same as always, minus the few that over the years, had fallen and broken, but then, like everything in life, they could not be expected to last forever and for each that had fallen, a new fragile glass globe hung in its place. “If it’s not the tree that has changed, then what has?” I wondered. Next my eyes traveled to the large brick fireplace, darkened by the years of use. The fire within burned as lively and inviting as ever, and while those particular logs were different than any other fire, that too was good and proper, you could after all, only burn a log once before clearing away the ashes to build anew. “What else then?” I pondered.

From the big country kitchen at the back of the house I could hear the muffled sound of quiet conversations as dinner was being prepared, mixed together with soft laughter and my mother’s gentle voice directing her “little Christmas elves”, as she used to call us when we were young and so eager to please on this night of nights in the hopes that Santa would reward us for our good behavior. So, it wasn’t that either. In fact, everything seemed just as it should be, yet the glass refused to be cold to the touch, as if intentionally trying to dampen my Christmas spirits. “How dare it!” I thought, then caught myself and laughed at the thought that a mere plate of glass could possibly have any self-determination or a desire to wish me ill.

Not being able to find anything amiss, I closed my eyes and tried to envision how the room and house had looked though all the past Christmases spent within its familiar surroundings in the hope I would be able to find the clue to the warming of the window pane. Settling back into the familiar depths of my old friend I let the memories of all the past years flow by. Slowly an image of a face began to form, drifting into the forefront of those visions from my past. A face so familiar, strong and dear to me that its image grew ever more clear the stronger the memories became. Then suddenly I knew what was wrong and as my tears started to flow I drew myself up into my chair as I had done so often when young. Pushing myself as far back into the chair as I could, I just let go, knowing I was powerless to effect any change. I simply sat there, letting all the pain and tears flow out of me until I could cry no more. All the while, my soft and faded friend of so many years supported and comforted me, enveloping me in our memories of the quiet evenings we had shared together by the window looking out into the dark, silent night watching the gentle falling of the Christmas Eve snow. The more I cried the sadder the face in the vision became as it too felt my pain and loss. Later, when I had recovered enough to stand, I pushed the chair back into the farthest corner of the room and tired to forget the entire event.

The years have come and gone and now another Christmas Eve is once more upon me. As I come down the stairs from my room I see my old friend, now tucked forlornly into the far corner of the living room and notice how sad, worn and faded he has become from the years of neglect and lack of use. Suddenly I feel a strange urge, a gentle tugging from way down deep inside me and before I am fully aware of what I am doing, as if moving in a dream, I find myself drawing him forth from his lonely corner to his rightful place in front of the big picture window. As I settle myself once more in his loving embrace, sinking into the overstuffed seat cushion I can feel the sagging seat springs settling beneath me. As his warm loving arms embrace me again, I am surprised to find he has somehow gotten bigger than I last remembered. Then it dawns on me that it is not he who’s gotten bigger, in fact he is still the same size as always. Rather, it is I who has once more changed, having grown somewhat smaller with age. Drawing my legs up under me, I am thrilled to discover that I can once more comfortably fit my entire frame in his loving embrace as I used to do when just a child. With a trembling hand I reach slowly toward the glass. Just as my outstretched fingers are about to make contact, I hesitate, fearful that the awful truth of the last touch those many years ago will remain unchanged and the glass will fail me yet again.

Then, just as I start to draw back my hand in fear, a vision of a face appears before me, a face that has never left my thoughts though all the intervening years, and as if aware of my dread to touch the glass again, there appears upon that loving visage a gentle, knowing smile of encouragement. Finally, I let myself relax, allowing my fingers to travel those final few fractions of space that separate them from the glass. A moment more and my fingers come in contact with the smooth, frosted window pane, sending a delicious, familiar, almost forgotten sensation rushing up my arm and down my spine.

It is Christmas Eve and I sit here once more where I belong, in the embrace of my old friend, now shared with another who forever remains in my heart; the three of us together, enjoying the cool of the glass and smiling out into the night.

Author’s Note:

I wrote this tale as I sat one evening thinking of my friends Milli and Fish and of those who have, or are about to, face their first Christmas without the company of a special someone with whom they shared their Life, their Love and their Dreams.

Knowing all to well the pain of that first Christmas, I have, over the years, come to know that while the pain will never cease, it does over time, soften, the memories become ever more dear until once more you will catch yourself smiling out into the night.

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