Aliens, Critters, and Dinosaurs

Through the Windowpane

Suppose you were really sick and couldn't go outside . . . This child is stuck inside and uses his imagination to create stories.

Through the Windowpane

         I am held like a prisoner here just because my mother believes I am sick. She treats me as if I were a child -- even though last month I turned nine!

         I know she means well, and perhaps, she is right that the cold air would bring my shivers back again, but I so much wish the doctors would let me go out and play like all the other children.

         It is so hard, sometimes. I stand looking out through my windowpane, and my feet want to run. Oh, if I could only gallop through the slippery grass where fairies and elves play... Around and around the old, crooked oak tree we’d circle. We’d get our shoes all muddy and wet – do elves and fairies wear shoes?

         Oh, it doesn’t matter. What fun we’d have. We could even check and see if there’s Druid magic around! Father once said that Druids always lived among the oaks.

         I know. We could tie a piece of metal to one of the tree’s limbs and test to see if lightning would strike. If the tree's full of Druid magic, lightning would never hit it. That would be proof.

         Or we could climb to the top and dangle our legs from the branches, swapping stories. I wonder if fairies tell good tales. I know leprechauns can…

         But I couldn't really climb a tree or check on magic -- even if there really were elves and fairies. I have to stay inside. Mother and the doctors say so.

         I know. I’ll breathe on the windowpane and tell it stories. I'll make pictures. See the motion of the droplets from the storm outside? The eaves have collected water and are dripping. The drips spilling down will make my pictures.

          See, that one looks like a dragon. His breath is fiery flame. But he has no legs, and his wings are too short. I shall help him out with a pick-up stick, sketching in the detail.

         Oh, darn. That second drop just destroyed my dragon. There comes another and another. Oh, look at that fat wishy-washy one, wandering this way and that. He’s like a dancer, swaying with the music of the rainfall.

         And there goes another. What a dull fellow! He follows the same path of the others. Shame on you, water drop! You should form your own paths. That’s what Father always says.

         I wipe a corner of the window with my sleeve. Outside the clouds are thick and coldly gray. But I can see the oak tree standing like a soldier, tall and dignified. He does not move his head or blink his eyes. He stands at attention.

         Too bad his limbs stretch out. That spoils his posture. He is crooked too. But what does an oak tree know of being a soldier? He needs me to command him. Oh, how I wish I could...

         Oh, look! The rain is clearing. The storm did not last that long. The wind did not even blow the leaves against the west wall. Yet I heard the rumbling of the clouds earlier. Father says that thunder is because the clouds ate too much candy and have a dreadful stomach ache, but I know he is teasing.

         I can see lovely acorns on the tree. If I collected them, I could string them together and make a necklace for Mother. She would like that. But I shall have to wait.I wonder when...

         I don’t believe it! There’s a squirrel ready to steal the surprise the oak tree keeps inside those little brown husks. He’s a hungry one, that squirrel, gnawing away at his captured nut.

         And he has a friend! What a furry little fellow. He faces away from me so I can see his gray, puffy pompadour. Isn’t that a lovely word? Father taught it to me, and I like it very much.

         The second squirrel is bobbing about like a spring toy. He makes his pompadour bounce up and down. Can a pompadour really be a tail, I wonder?

         Oh, how I wish I could hear those two squierrels clattering and chattering away. Are they happily discussing the rain? I bet they're talking about their luck in finding an oak tree with all its hanging treasures.

         A blue jay joins them, sitting on a tree! He is wearing an officer’s blue uniform. He's probably scolding "his ranks." He soars so close to the squirrels he frightens them.

         "Do not worry, dear blue jay, your troops will return. There are too many jewels to be found under that oak tree."

         I can see the jay’s beak opening and shutting. He is still cawing, issuing orders right and left. His rudeness certainly sent the squirrels away. Maybe a mockingbird should be called in to scold him. The mockingbird could be the sergeant of arms who disciplines the blue jay officer...

         Oh, no. The officer has flown away. So who is in charge? Maybe I am, standing her in my PJ’s. But it is lonely being in command when no one else is here. Perhaps that is why the jay left. He is out looking for recruits.

         If I breathe deeply I wonder if I can taste the air? The falling rain has crushed the leaves. They must smell like coffee grounds or chocolate sauce. The dirt is wet, so it probably smells like mushrooms. But maybe, it smells like grass, newly mowed. I wish I could remember…

         Again I wipe the window. It mists up so eagerly. Does it not want me to see the soggy world?

         The rain is only drizzly now. It has calmed. No animals flit about. Why? Don’t they like the washed world? Everything is pastel. Maybe color is all washing out.

         “Oh, Mother, must I get beneath the covers once again? The day needs me to watch it. I am a soldier, standing at my duty.

         “Can’t I just stay until the rainbow?

         “Yes, my eyes are tired. Okay, I will close them a moment, but then I must go back to my duty. I must…”

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