My Rear Window

I can look out my window and see things happening that my neighbors will never know. Across the stretch of long backyards a squirrel bounds up the wooden steps running along the back of a building. It’s like Rear Window, but more detailed and less dramatic. I think about walking around the block, knocking on that neighbor’s door, and saying:

“Hey. A squirrel just bounded up the steps at the back of your building.”

“It’s 7:30 in the morning,” they’d say, wrapping himself or herself tighter in a blanket or robe.

“Oh. Right. I know. But I just got up to write and happened to look out my living room window and I saw this squirrel bounding up your steps. I thought it was a bird at first. Your robe or blanket is the same color as mine.”

“Yeah.”

“Heh. So, anyway, I had this thought, like, ‘My neighbor doesn’t know this is happening,’ like, ‘My neighbor doesn’t know this special moment is happening and what would it be like to let them know.’ So, that’s when I decided to stop by and let you know.”

“Don’t ever do this again.”

And they’d close the door, and I’d walk back around the block, in my blanket and/or robe, and shuffle back into my building, down the long hallway, and into my living room, and I’d stand again at the window, and look out over the long backyards to those wooden steps, and see, just at that moment, in the backdoor at the top of the stairs, a bundle of someone pulling back into the darkness of their home and closing the door.