The woman I serve tea and bagels to sits by her window for much of the day. The dimensions are three by six feet, and afford her a view that includes people walking, cars driving, and most significantly, the birds at her feeder. Today we saw not only the small brown ones I cannot identify, but two male cardinals, bluejays, and even a red winged black bird. I tried to point out the flash of red on his wing, but her focus is compromised. She took my word for it. Her ninety three year old eyes are ending their warranty, though there is an upgrade in her near future. 

 

Probably the birds have no idea how much joy they bring to a woman's sometimes colorless day. They are simply hunting for seeds, and enjoying the gift of flight. Maybe nest building is now on their to-do list, having recently stepped into the season we humans label as spring. I imagine the animals have no need to name it. 

 

My friend and I chatted about this possibility and even asked Alexa her opinion about timing. She confirmed that domestic duties begin in March. 

 

There are times I want to describe beautiful scenes just out of range, like the sunset behind us as she eats dinner, or the neighbors chatting across the road. But this is rather fruitless, when she cannot see them for herself. As the days grow warmer I may try to coax her to the porch, but last summer she was resistant. 

 

Even as she sits as close to the panes as she can from her recliner, the amount visible is dwarfed by the expanse of what she cannot see. It is almost as if those events that are just a few feet away do not exist. For her, I guess they don't. 

 

We sat in silence, and it occurred to me that I am sitting by my own metaphorical window. I pretend that the panorama of my awareness is all inclusive. But probably, certainly, there is a view that is exponentially wider just outside my pain.