The pattern of the dirt upon the pane was the fingerprint of the storm passed, a baggage given to the glass and taken on in silent acceptance.
The dirty windows on the way to the railway station, in those separated years, were ink and board to our finest love poems. It wasn't much, but it's all we had.
From dirty windows to peeling paint, it was a cottage that needed a bit of love. I had the feeling that we were its perfect family, that we were the one's to reverse its fortunes and restore its heart.
We'd play games on the dirty windows in the train station. Each day they'd be treated to a fresh layer of grime from the passing steam engines and there it would be - our fresh slate of the day.
I could lose myself in the story of that dirty window, in the child and puppy created smudges of this and that. There comes a time to wipe that canvas clean and let it start afresh, yet these memories are their own kind of gold.
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