My windows steam up whenever I cook on a cold day, giving the apartment a cozy, snowed in feel. A few flurries fell earlier, but at the moment this is just another cold and windy day.
It’s also a 13th of Friday and I just made navy bean and spinach soup. Stirred the pot and sat down on the living room couch to take a break from the computer screen. I looked to my lavender plant, and something on the fogged up window behind the plant instantly caught my eye.
First, I noticed what looked like a small, slightly smeared hand print against the window. Then a “Hi”. I asked my roommate if he wrote it today or any other day and he said he hadn’t. Nor did I.
All kids who ride the bus to school know that writing on windows rocks. As a kid who hated school, writing on windows would be the highlight of my day. My art ranged the spectrum of tiny footprints made with the side of my fist, smiley faces and ‘Hi’s.
The last time I left an impression in fog was in my sister’s car about a year ago. I pressed my bare feet against her windshield while she drove us from Brooklyn to Jersey. That, too, was a dark and chilly night. I suppose I could have helped her navigate lane changes, but making footprints on the windshield was more fun. The next day was sunny and we forgot all about the footprints, and because my little sis never cleans the inside of her windshield, my feet haunted us every time we rode in her car at night until she sold it, windshield unwashed. What I would have given to be a fly in the car when the new owner drove it at night for the first time.
Anywho, back to me on this day. Our widows are double-paned and a closer inspection showed that the writing was done on the inside. Since there’s a fire escape outside the window, this is a relief. I’d prefer to have a a plant that knows how to write than a social peeping Tom.
Besides a highly talented plant, the only rational explanation is that we have a ghost who wants us to know we’re not alone. Or that one of us writes on windows in our sleep.