I know that the vast majority of us saw this movie. It’s about a writer who sits in front of his window to write, only to find out he is a crazy writer who killed his wife and her lover, and then buried them in a corn field seen from the window. Yet, most immigrants, like me, do have a place, a window or a backdoor that looks at something. I have changed houses many times, but in each time, there was that one place where I can sit down and look through a window, or a back screen door to reflect on past, present, and life in general. It’s as it’s a screen, a movie screen that displays his or her life, past, present, and sometimes future. Whatever was that place, it was always there.
I work from 8 to 5, the American dream, or what I thought was. My body is accustomed to waking up at 7 am, and in weekends, this usually spells trouble for me. My best “secret window” was in my previous house, where it overlooks the lake. It didn’t look directly at the lake, but at the lake street, where there is a line of houses between this street and the actual lake. But I could see the lake clearly from my home office in the second floor. I would make myself a cup of coffee, and sneak upstairs hoping not to awaken my wife, to have my moment. I start the day with a couple of sips of freshly brewed coffee before my fingers automatically seek my pack of Marlboro light back then.
That window used to be my movie screen that displays anything my simple mind wanted to view. Sometimes it displays my past, and how I got to where I am now. The agony and misery, shame and disgust, love and passion, and hope and persistence. I could see it all. On occasions, my mind would tend to sneak away when a jogger runs by, or a car drives fast, but it comes back to me quickly after. Sometimes I wish I could forget the past, but myself keeps dragging me back to that window, and I wish I could control what it displayed. I could see the day I arrived in NY airport, and how naive I was. Or the day I was humiliated by the so many who crossed my roads. Even those I hurt during my short life in the states. I sometimes thought that God is punishing me for what my soul have done.
Sometimes, this window showed me my present, and how happy I am. A home, family, and a career that I adore. Part of society, that seeks hiding no more. I smiled so many times when I could see my wife walking behind me, and feel her arms on my shoulder. I wish I could tell her that I’m haunted by this window. She wouldn’t understand anyway, for she can’t see what was playing today. But the simple thought of where I am now was enough to fill my heart with joy. Looking around my home office, seeing my accomplishments, and the price I had to pay, was a constant reminder of hope.
My worst nightmare is when the future was playing on the screen. To be able to provide, and love, is not easy. I know that our faith in the almighty lord should offset such fears. But we’re humans, and humans always like to prepare. Where am I going to die, or will I be able to see my parents again? How is my wife going to deal with my departure, if it was distended to be then? Will I ever go back to my heavens that is somewhere in 6abarboor? Where is my comfort, is it in being an immigrant, or a bird so eager to go home? Will I ever go back to my filth of the past, and fall victim to what was once my hell? How strong am I to resist the calls of the past? I wish I could answer such questions, yet I kept going back to such secret window as if I was self-punishing my soul for what once was.
I never figured out what was my worst viewing, past, present, or future. Each had it’s way to haunt me, in their own ways. I tried to avoid the window, with no success. Until I forced myself to believe that no crime will ever be at rest, till punishment was applied. Maybe this was my punishment, or a way to heal the soul. So many years passed, and I’m yet to find the cure. But now I am convinced that the pain has to go on, till the soul believes that the dues were fully paid. And for those of you who read my poem “leave me alone, I’ve paid my dues” could relate to this chapter. Or maybe the poem “prisoner of sorrow” was the perfect description of what I maybe feeling. Heck, I have written so many poems that describe the same feeling that I have lost count. But in the end, there are things that we control, and things that us they control.
Crazy & random thoughts
8 years ago