Hidden Away

When I stop to think about it, I realize that I have never seen a window. I see the word in books, but the lack of real, concrete description often has me wondering of what a window truly looks like.

In one of the books I’ve read, a maiden throws her hair out of a window whenever her mother calls for her to let her up. And in others, people see the world outside through glass and window panes, sometimes catching their reflection in them. They can be small or big, square or round, and sometimes spanning stories of a home in elaborate fashion. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen my reflection either.

Even still, the writers of these books assume that everyone knows what a window is. The only impression I get is that it is a hole, either covered by glass or not, that is in a house, a cave or some other structure. People can see beyond the hills that surround where they live, a garden, or even oceans as far as the eye can see. The problem is, I don’t see, not really.

You see, there are no windows where I live. For some reason or another, the builders of my cottage neglected to put any windows in. If I want to see outside, I physically have to open the front door to see the narrow stone pathway, lined with daisies, that leads to a thick wood that surrounds me on all sides. It’s like I live in a perfect circle of the forest, even though I noticed one summer that one edge of my little circle is completely flat. I guess you could call it a half circle, but it’s a little more, making it the shape of a wheel of cheese that has only been partially sliced with a sword.

Though I may not know what a window is, I know these neck of the woods better than anything else. However, I don’t know what lies beyond them. I threatened to run away when I was twelve and intended to make good on that promise. Only I got horribly lost after traveling for nearly seven hours in a direction I wasn’t even sure of. Luckily my best and only friend was able to track me down before I could reach any animals that could easily stalk and hunt me in the night. Sometimes I hear wolves howl at the full moon, but I’ve never seen any with my own eyes aside from those drawn in the books Dyna brings me.

The woods seemed just an endless expanse of trees, though I know at some point they must end. I will get beyond that barrier at some point, but until then, I’m following my father’s orders by staying put. Then again, I’m practically forced to follow orders. He is, after all, the King.


Turning Tales

carouseling around
a child at play
gusts beneath arms
topple upward
fly down
scrape the sky
catch the clouds
turn to trees
and hear a story
about a princess
prying out of a tower
and a prince below
extending a flower
prance through the pollen
bottling bushels a barrel
all the way home
until the fairies are done
casting their tales