Blues and Greens

From my bedroom window, I can look into your kitchen. An old washing line runs between our homes, and while the distance separating these houses couldn’t possibly be any larger, it comforts me that our socks could technically meet in the middle of the street, spending an afternoon together, drying in the sun.

Yesterday you sent me a piece of sea glass over to my window, the old washing line becoming our very own telegraph wire. I imagine the piece must once have been clear as water, and then the vastness of the world beyond our little street, its freedoms and secrets left their stains and dyed it in deep blues and greens. Or maybe it’s just the reflection of the adventures of an old beer bottle.

I keep the piece of sea glass in a little box in my bedroom. Once a day I unlock it, take out the sea glass and see if its colour has changed yet. So far, it hasn't. So I put it back, lock the box and hide the key again.