a window

No matter through which window I notice an energetic yellow grey and white necked titmouse flopping its wings or twirling in the air, searching for whatever birds search for, I always picture the frame and the warmth of the window at my grandparents’ home in the south of Germany. I remember it opened, the dark green wooden shutters pushed to the sides with bread crumbs scattered generously on the inner windowsill, collected carefully after breakfast by my grandpa’s hand, missing a finger — a sign of the carpenter trade. Having heard all his life stories it was quite miraculous to me that was all he was missing. The birds would fly in as if into their own nest, feasting on our leftovers that otherwise would have ended up in the bin, but my grandma would never allow it - a sign of intimately knowing scarcity. Having heard all her life stories it was quite miraculous to me she never lost the desire to share. I watched the birds with such pure joy only a child can exude. Birds inside the house! Birds within the reach of my hand! Birds in the window of my memories through which I just now understand the bigger picture.