A View of Missed Potential
by Bethany Nicole Shifflett
I can never forget that window.
Even on days when the blinds were drawn,
I could hear more than I ever saw—
the window cracked open a smidge,
or completely closed from the outside world—
Bath vibrated off the pane.
Once abandoned streets were swarming with overlapping echoes of laughter,
shouts, and the incessant squawks of seagulls at all hours.
When I lifted the blind from its ancient pulley system
and gazed at the worn limestone buildings—
I counted thirty or more—
I’d imagine that all those people looked through them at the same time as me.
A nonchalant glance below to the centuries-old cobblestones,
Maybe a gawking stare of amazement that comes with holidays,
Except that each time I was met with the sight of ruffled curtains and frosted glass.
I would run my finger along the old wood of the window,
Painted white now, and skim over the warped layers of the past that lay beneath.
Tracing the glass, it felt hollow, not enough of a barrier to below.
The seagulls swooped down from wherever they came from,
to walk along the sidewalks with humans
and snatch food from strangers,
Before flying away, no sooner than they arrived.
They must feel the breeze along their beaks, breaking through the air.
I imagined that is what freedom tastes like, feels like.
I wanted to be that daring, evaporate through the glass,
and wade through the noise and excitement with the drunkards and youth beneath.
I sit still.
I recall the envy rippling through my gut in waves,
churning like the wakes from the Pulteney Bridge boats.
I curled into a ball of blankets, unable to get out of bed.
The longer English summer days made me feel as if I accomplished nothing—
did nothing all day.
There are always some tasks to complete at home;
my hands are never idle when intertwined in responsibility.
The freedom I had there,
I found it paralyzing.
Do I walk through the shops and cafés and the Abbey today?
Or find peace along the canal and the lush gardens in bloom?
I declared to myself in whispers,
so overwhelmed by the possibility of freedom—
that I must constrain myself to the comfort of my bed,
as if I were back at home,
where bed meant a place of reprieve.
But now I can see,
as I stare through the same window in my mind,
that I had lost that glimmer of possibility.
My mind’s own steel doors had moved across the ocean with me,
clutched me in one position all over again.