Hanging on the Window

This is my old window on the world, and today I am really missing this window and that world. I miss the air, the houses, the chimneys and the sky they curled the smoke into on some days. I miss the church bell, the bells and screeching of the trams, and the quiet between these things. Most of all I am missing the every day sounds from inside the house: the opening and closing of doors and the footfalls in the stairwell in the mornings, and in the afternoons, in reverse. The scrape of chairs across the floor that signalled oběd, and again when it was over. And the near sudden silence of afternoon rest time. There wasn't a lot of activity to watch: the dog let out, the neighbor on his bike, people opening gates, women hanging laundry, an attractive woman talking to someone, standing one foot before the other, hands clasped behind her back. Once, while I was standing at a different window, I heard the sound of a duvet being shaken out and saw a single white sock float past me and to the ground. I would not have thought that I would care so much for being not alone, for taking comfort in the constant reminders that other people were around. But I do. I miss my window and everything around it.