beyond my window

The moon is staring at me. I am sitting on my bed and I feel its eyes fixated upon me. I look out my window, make eye contact and feel cold. I look at my fingers, legs, and feet. I am pieces. Pieces of places I’ve been and people I’ve met. And to every piece I gain, I lose one as well. I give it away. It makes me question: Am I a little bit of everything or a whole lot of nothing?

I remember when my dad was driving us home late at night while my mom and sister were asleep. I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but looking at my dad driving all alone, I couldn’t let him be the only one awake. I had to stay up. Even though I didn’t say a word, I liked knowing I was there for him. Looking at the car window I could see the road moving through the headlights in plain darkness. I turned my head and tried to see it from different angles. At one point, I realized that no matter what funny pose, or head turns I tried, the moon was always static. It simply stayed.

Windows fascinate me. They are frames, and by simply tilting my head and moving my body I could come up with my own picture. I recall every single window I’ve ever had. I’ve had tall windows, square windows, round windows, the list goes on. The first thing I notice when arriving at a new house is the bedroom window. I like to see what picture it has for me, maybe the picture it framed was there to remind me of where I wasn’t. Or to show me my reflection. And the idea that I could fit the whole universe into one square didn't leave me so overwhelmed. You see, windows help us make sense of things. They are our frame of reference.

I grew up moving around and after relocating so many times I developed a habit of staring at the moon on my first and last night at a house. On the last night, I look out till the moon is so high; the window can no longer frame it. Then I just know that where I am no longer makes sense, when it stops feeling like home.

These last nights in all of the rooms I lived in felt cold. And I just knew my time there was over, although it didn't mean I was ready for it. I don't think we are ever really ready to leave a piece of us.

I've never been good at goodbyes, even though I had a lot of practice. But I've never been good at hellos either. All I feel is a piece of me leaving and a foreign piece attaching, I am very aware of this exchange. Every “hello” means another piece stripped out of my skin leaving me in the cold. Leaving me less of myself and more of someone else.

Soon we all become a newly painted and empty room. From window to window we are the observer. Living in so many places has made me realize we are everything therefore we are nothing. That the pieces we leave are an addition to someone else's frame of reference, and each piece we get makes us evolve into beautiful complex humans.

The moon is starring at me. I try not to make eye contact but I can’t help it. It feels cold. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and look at my window. The moon is gone. Out of sight. It’s too high for my window to frame it. And again, I know it’s time to say goodbye.