A View From My Bedroom Window Essay

A View From My Bedroom Window Essay-45
Beyond the chilled glass to my left, green lights of the dashboard angle up toward the stars. My wife’s parents live five hundred miles away, what we have come to think of as a day’s drive.

Beyond the chilled glass to my left, green lights of the dashboard angle up toward the stars. My wife’s parents live five hundred miles away, what we have come to think of as a day’s drive.

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When we arrive, she will hoist our son high against her chest and take him, murmuring his dreams, into the house.

I will carry our long-legged daughter from our car to her room, where I will lay her gently on the bed we have made for her.

She had made no secret of her opposition to the move; rather, she had expressed this so strongly that I harbored the unspoken fear that she might not follow us.

She was very much in my mind as we passed a small house with a chain link fence strung with Christmas lights that somehow looked as if they hadn’t been taken down the winter before, and a collapsing larger house, with covered porches on three sides, and beside it a field populated by broken school buses and eyeless shells of trucks.

The most desirable spots were the two at the top, which were relatively private—though none of the trailers could have been more than twenty feet from its neighbor—and had the best view of the woods across the road. When I heard the sound again, and understood what I heard, it became a glowing ember, a warm promise. Not my father alone, which I was used to, or my mother’s polite acknowledgment of a joke, but the two of them, together.

Our trailer was at the very bottom, which meant, my mother said as she stood in the doorway, not unbuttoning her coat, Everyone could see in. The laughter was followed by other sounds, and an exchange I either heard through the thin wall or imagined. My father believed in asking for forgiveness, not permission.My father could always be depended on to think of something interesting to do.On the edge of a field across from the entrance to the Natural Bridge, in Virginia (which we did not see, as there was an admission charge), we ate sandwiches my mother had packed, and played a game he invented using two sticks and a crabapple.The result of my father’s insistence, my mother’s reluctance, was my father rolling from the bed, then shuffling out to where I sensed I should pretend still to sleep. He slid one strong arm under my knees, another behind my shoulders, and lifted.I fought to suppress a smile of anticipation, expecting to be carried in to share with them the wonderful discovery they had made, the cause of their laughter.Later, while we drove, my father wedged a paper cup between the dash and the windshield and had me take shots with a crumpled cigarette package, narrating like a commentator on TV.We were football fans, my father and I, but we would play any game that presented itself.We turned left, and then right, and then there were no more hotels, no more restaurants—nothing but a curving road.The farther we went down that road, the more I worried about what my mother would think.This was November, sometime between my birthday-which we had celebrated in an empty house, amid packed boxes—and Thanksgiving.Under my father’s influence, the past Christmas Eve, I had seen a reindeer’s red nose from my bedroom window; with the same power of persuasion, he had convinced me, at least, that our move from Maryland to North Carolina—a place so far off it might as well have been wholly imaginary—was a great adventure.

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