When I was younger, say maybe 12, I liked to ride my bike just after dark. My parents were the loving sort, so they, of course, thought a young girl riding around after dark was maybe not the brightest idea. Sometimes though, if I asked at just the right moment, when they were engrossed in, say preparing their taxes, and hadn’t noticed the hour, I’d get to go for a night ride.
I can remember that I would start out riding as fast and furious as my legs could manage. My chest would be burning from the cold air, my hair waving behind me like a banner, my ears feeling full of cotton, but really just full of rushing wind.
I liked to look up at the stars and imagine them as pin pricks through a giant piece of black construction paper. I wondered about the eyes that could be peeking through those holes.
Eventually, my legs would wear out, and I would slow to a crawl, maybe even hop off the bike and walk alongside it.
I think this was the genesis of my love of windows. I can remember being fascinated by all the lit rectangles of my neighbor’s homes. I wondered who was having ice cream and watching the television in their pajamas, who was waiting for whom, who was neglecting the dishes, and who was already dreaming in the recliner.
I still love me a lit window, mostly, I love the way they bring back my childhood rides.