There’s a window in our kitchen that faces North.
Our kitchen is painted an aquamarine turquoise, with one Tuscan yellow wall. The window frame is wooden, and is painted white. On a shelf on one side a Christmas present from seven to eight years ago has stretched it’s modest vines from its tiny ceramic pot into a veritable jungle. There are three mason jars; one is filled with blue sea shells from my parents honeymoon, and the other two are housing avocado saplings. Their roots are tangled and knotted inside the glass, the water murky and brown, while the rest of them grow straight and vibrant green. A tin bird ornament rests on the one to the left.
There is a humble cactus in a broken, hand-painted mug that was made in Italy. There is a small, vintage cream saucer that is shaped and painted as a monk. A set of unpretentious chimes hang, along with a hand carved, wooden star that has been painted gold. Quotes are tacked to the left, one is taped to the glass.
There are two porcelain hands. One is purely decoration, the other for holding rings. There are two plastic figurines from a farm playset of a steer and a woman holding a bucket. Their paint is cracked and thin, worn.
Another plant is reaching out of an old plastic peanut butter container. I don’t know what it is or where it came from, but it’s there, and it’s living.
The window itself is dirty. We never dust it, and there are cobwebs in every corner. At night, moths rest on the glass, seeking warmth, and you can see their delicate wings splayed gently to the light. Tiny spiders weave tirelessly, and crawl across invisible homes. Their threads are incomprehensibly thin and exquisite, naked to the human eye.
Everything is how it always was.
Brushing my teeth tonight, I finally understood how beautiful life can be without anybody even trying.