Tears on the Windowsill

I can hear my tears. They are loud and silky. My face has trails for them so when they fall they have a map to guide them to their landing place.

Sometimes I look out the window of our bedroom. I love this particular window. It looks over a big beautiful yellow house with a big yard and a rooftop deck. I never see anyone in or around the house...

I imagine one day that I will live in a home like the one I look at and I will have children running through the hallway's. I can see the kids diapers falling down as they walk toward me saying "Mama..." with pooched lips- there are two kids very close in age... a boy and a girl. They vie for my attention. I open my arms. I am surrounded by bottles and cribs and baby scent. Fresh and new and innocent. I imagine that I look up and see a woman staring down at me through her window. She looks sad- I can practically see the tears welled up in her eyes and they drop to the windowsill. I wonder what makes her so sad. Her eyes watching wide with want.

I look over that house each day. I want that open space with pitter-patter feet running toward me. I want my arms around children. I want to smell innocence. I want to patch over the maps of tears on my face so they don't become too use to a free expressway down my cheeks. I want to build my heart so it can love instead of hide. I want the girl in the window to wipe her tears and go toward the baby that is crying in her nursery...