Prose From the Pillow

There are views from bedroom windows far more fantastic than mine, but living in New York, one learns to carve out space, create structure, and appreciate the composition of a view more than its beauty. The way the corner of a building comes together with a piece of blue sky, the way a tree stands to paint a perfect little picture. A view. When I open my eyes each morning, that's what I see. Framed by my window is a slice of sky, pieces of brick, branches and leaves from the big tree, home to the songbirds.

I would be awed to wake each day to a breathtaking landscape, to hear waves crashing or the rhythmic pounding of a tropical rain, but I like the distant sound of the delivery trucks’ squeaky breaks, people talking while bacon cooks. I like the sound of workmen’s banter and kids on their mad dash to school.

I am thankful for the sounds that I wake to each morning, for the image that exists only from my pillow. It is my view, my little composition, and the sweet gift of light the sun lays so softly on the edge of the place where I dream.