A friend of ours lives in a place that has a metric-shit-ton of windows. It’s beautiful, has plenty of suspension points, and is quite an awesome place actually. But those windows require maintenance. And, being a person with mad skills, determination and a wry sense of humor, she’s decided to advertise for a window cleaning sub. Whether she’s successful or not, I’ll be interested to see. I’ve often thought about finding a sub of my own to carry my packages when shopping, help me try on clothing, and keep me company during pedicures (or even give them), so I’m giving this one a careful watching.
While Daddy and I were talking about her ad, he asked me if my windows were being cleaned enough. I looked at him with a wink (and a really awful feeling that he was gonna ask me to wash the windows in the house) and said “windows are a hard limit”. He smiled back and said “metaphorically speaking”.
He equated all those hundreds of window panes with all of the hundreds of things that make up a relationship. This window pane equates to attention, that one to affection, and the others to other things. Daddy wanted to know if my own panes were clean enough. And the unspoken corollary being if he helped me clean them sufficiently so that I didn’t need someone else to help me.
I hate questions like that. When he asks things like that, I always feel as if it’s really not the time to bring up those panes which might be a little speckled, or those ones that might have a layer of dust on them so thick that they’re hard to see through. Instead, I said, my panes are most always pretty clean. And they are.
But there are some panes that are hard to see through now and again. Unfortunately, they’re strategically placed about so that it makes it hard to see sometimes. But typically for me, I just look through others. I rarely notice them. Move on. Nothing to see here. Until he asks. But now, with his question, I wondered if I’d just gotten used to looking out panes that were slowly clouding over
The pane of Rope. That one makes me sad to think about. That’s one of those panes that I no longer look through. I brought that one upon myself though, and try as I might, I tire of mentioning it at all anymore. Trying to figure out rope from the top really skewed my view of rope as a whole. And blogging about it didn’t help matters. At. All. I wonder if that pane will ever become a little less dim at some point or if it’s just one that I have to get used to not being able to reach to clean. I suppose there is still a bright spot in that pane in that he’s not looking for someone else to help him. But it still makes me sad to think that something that once brought both of us so close, has become something that neither of us wants to talk about.
The pane of topping. I wonder if I really have an affinity for topping, or if I’m just learning to look through other panes because the ones I prefer are smudged. I’m ambivalent about it. And that’s hardly fair for a bottom. Not caring. Hurting them (even if they like it) because I’ve nothing better to do at the moment or that they’ve bugged me enough for it. Or worse yet, because I’m hurting and I need someone else to feel it.
And don’t think the irony of that statement doesn’t occur to me.
And the other pane. The one I’ve spoken to him about many times yet remains smudged. All the wishes in the world that that one would be clean enough to look through again can’t change it. And it's unfortunate that it's the sole pane that I can't clean myself. It's impossible to reach without help. I wonder about that. And I wonder why I miss looking out of that particular one so much. The loss of that one pane is too difficult to think about and so I've hidden it behind a curtain, and I’m not inclined to move the fabric to see what it looks like after all this time of inattention.
There was a lot of irony in the things we spoke about. And I sometimes find it hard to look at him, to try to make it better for him (or at least not make things worse), to be there for and with him, when there are those few strategically placed panes of glass that make it difficult to get the full view. The irony in his statement about why working until all hours helps him to focus his mind so that he doesn’t have to think about other things wasn’t lost on me. And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to make him understand.
Fortunately, there are no panes that are broken, and for that I’m grateful. The panes that are grimiest are the ones that I don’t look through so much anymore. And the ones that are the brightest are the ones that I try to clean so often I’m afraid of wearing the glass thin. If a mirror is a reflection of the soul, what then is a pane of glass but an echo of it’s contemplation?
Don’t try to make sense of that one. The thought makes me sad and that’s how I choose to feel right now. Sad for the pain I’ve lost. Sad for the panes that aren’t being cleaned. And sad that I couldn’t find a way to say this to him when he asked.