Our Smudged Window

The window came to me first with my dad, me and my dad on the couch in our house on Ridgewater Drive. Controller in one hand, sippy cup in the other, my own imagination and dreams were put on full display on the screen in front of me. The controller in my right hand became the wand, the conduit of my imagination to do with what I chose. "Stupefy!" I'd yell at the screen, tossing my sippy cup aside while casting a red bolt towards my opponent. For once, I saw the world I was destined to be in, if only through a mere window placed in my hand. If anything, that window has only become larger since that day with my dad at Ridgewater Drive. Everything real fades into my peripheral when I peer through it with the awe-struck gaze of an imaginative child. We may have since moved on from that house, but the window is still the same. My love for the things on the other side is still the same. I still cast the red bolt with the controller turned wand the same. "Stupefy!" I exclaim, just the same. Because contrary to popular belief, the window never closes. People just forget to clean the smudges sometimes.