A Window to God - a short story
I opened the door and walked pensively toward the single bed. There I laid down my holdall and surveyed the room. The wallpaper was different but the furniture was more or less as I recalled. It seemed dark but then it lacked the toys strewn around the floor that coloured my memory. I crossed the threadbare carpet to the window dodging the ghosts of model planes hanging from the ceiling with fishing nylon. Leaning my forehead against the wooden frame across the middle of the old sash and case window I peered through the drops of rain to the garden below. It seemed smaller than I remembered.
The wind blew the tulips that she had planted last autumn and their bright red heads bowed in a gesture of sadness at her passing. It was cold but not unseasonably so. I could feel the draught on my face as the wind searched out every gap around the window. It had four panes of glass - two in the top sash and two in the bottom. The glass was old and imperfect giving a distorted view of the world beyond. In my grief I reflected on the imperfections we all carry. Hers was stubbornness. We had tried to persuade her to have double-glazing installed but she had always resisted any effort to modernise the house. Now it no longer mattered. I stood there for a long time reflecting on what did and did not matter. Death I realised brings a different window to the world.
Dusk was beginning to descend. Suddenly, the streetlight beyond the garden came on. I took a step back and drew the curtains. They were thin and faded. Turning to face the bed I considered the prospect of sleeping once more in this room. Thirty years ago there had always been someone else in the house. Now I was alone. I wasn't frightened but I became aware that in the right circumstances even happy memories wrap themselves in sadness.
Cautiously, I made my way to the bedside table and switched on the lamp that sat there. It barely lit the room but it did send a bright circle of light to the white lace cloth on which it stood. On the cloth lay an old black book with a zip sealing three sides. 'Holy Bible' was embossed in gold lettering on the spine. I had never felt particularly religious before but under the present circumstances I sat down on the bed and lifted the book. It was about the size of my hand. I undid the zip and opened the front cover. There was a white sticker firmly fixed to the black page. Her name was there along with the name of the church that had presented it to her for good Sunday school attendance. It brought me some comfort.
I sat in bed that evening and thumbed my way through various passages. Some I remembered from the Sunday evenings when she would sit by the open fire and read to us. Most however were new. I looked for answers to my questions but instead found more questions. All of them revolved around 'why?'
I recalled how she had sat on the edge of this bed at night and listened while I recited a prayer she had taught my sisters and me. It was a prayer of thanks for my family and for the day that was drawing to a close and it ended with a request to keep me safe and look after me. Even though I hadn't said that prayer for years the words came back to me as though she was still sitting there. Confused and tired I held her book in my hands and I prayed that prayer. I thanked God for her life, her love, and for all the good times we'd had. I asked him to take her soul and keep it safe and I asked him to comfort me and give me peace. I hoped that he was listening but I didn't know how to be sure. I placed the book back on the white cloth, switched off the light and settled down.
Sleep did not come easily. My body ached with exhaustion. My mind ached with thoughts. Between them they succeeded in allowing me only brief periods of unconsciousness. Two beings were never far from my thoughts that night. One was my mother and the other was her God. I knew I had lost the former and I didn't know how to find the latter. I felt alone and as I drifted in and out of sleep I prayed frequently.
It was just after three o'clock in the morning when I was awakened abruptly by a gust of wind rattling the window. I turned over to face the direction of the sound and lay for several minutes to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. The light from the streetlamp was providing a yellow glow over the faded curtains. As I focused on them I realised that the vertical and horizontal timbers that divided the panes of glass in the old window were casting a perfect shadow on the curtains. Just a few feet from my bed and about six feet in height was the shadow of a cross, bathed in light. For the first time that night I found her God and he gave me great comfort. I no longer felt alone and after thanking him in prayer I slept undisturbed until dawn.
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