I remember a passage in Melissa Bank's book, The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, where she describes seeing her life through a window—and realizing how small it looks.
Tonight I was walking back into my apartment from the laundry room, when I glimpsed my kitchen window. I don't think in the six years I've lived here, I've ever actually looked in that window. It's high up, at the back of my fourplex—not a place I generally hang out. But for a moment as I stared up at it, it was like looking into someone else's life. It felt foreign.
A couple of succulents line the windowsill above the sink, pumps of fancy soap and lotion a friend gave me for my birthday sit next to them. The freezer door of my fridge shows a sense of humor, covered in silly magnets and photographs of friends and family. On the wall next to it, a bulletin board holds invitations and thank you notes, a St. Patrick's Day necklace, and my half marathon race number.
I stared in, objectively assessing. It looked to me like the kitchen of someone on the verge. Someone trying hard to live life to the fullest. Someone who loves plants and people. Who would one day like to look inside and see a whole lot more.