From Behind The Window(William Cline) FROM BEHIND THE WINDOW

The window frame is dull white, cracked and peeling, with dry mold edging the smeared pane of glass. Its swivel lock has lost its brass plating to time and use.

I stand behind the window staring out into the yard at my children. Behind me is the silent house, insulated against the wind and cold, and the noise and green smell of the rest of the world.

From this place I watch my boys play in the yard. It is Spring, but the heat is such that sweat runs down my arms as I stand there; my feet inside tennis shoes feel slimy, and there are tiny explosions of pain behind my forehead.

Tyler, my two-year-old son, pumps his short legs furiously through the tall grass running from Zachary, my three-year-old son, who has found a worm. I can see his mouth open and close, see his eyes fly open wide with mock terror, but I hear no sound behind this window; maybe I hear my own breathing, sucking in the dry and dusty air of the house, rattling in my chest, but I ignore it.

Another quick jolt of pain in my head then it is gone, though it has made me close one eye for a moment.

Outside, the sun plays off of the wading pool and the stones and tricycle half submerged there. Leaves and grass float on the surface, and Zachary's shoes are dressed in wet dirt, and squish when he steps from having been cooled off in that magical water.

Around the sandbox there are sawn rings of an apple tree that once adorned the yard. Its advancing age brought parts of it crashing down, and I brought down the rest, fearing that my children might be under another branch when it gave way.

Tyler, having escaped the horror of the worm, now has pulled one of the rings on its side, exposing the dark bare earth underneath.

Spider, spider, he mouths, though I cannot hear his excited voice.

His brother gives him no attention as he climbs up the wrong way on the slide. Zachary is a Saturday morning cartoon hero who has little time for spiders, for now anyway. Tyler drops down to his bare knees and looks closely at the beetle. Other beasts of the minute six-legged variety crawl in and out of the lumpy soil; Tyler calls them all spiders.

Spider is the two-year-old’s catchall name for bugs.

Worms, of course, are snakes.

I see Tyler stand and his fist is closed. His mouth works rapidly shaping silently the word Daddy over and over. He runs to the edge of the fence where it meets the house and calls for me in his loudest voice.

I can hear him faintly now. And as I look down through the window I see the top of his head up against the wood plank of the fence. In his one hand he holds what I know must be a spider he must show me, the other glides slowly across the splintered wood grain of the side of the house. He is feeling the textures and the smooth spots of the wood siding. He does this with me sometimes as he sits in my lap, running his little hands across the roughness of my face, or my arms and the coarse hair there.

His little hands that are yet to be toughened by time collect their share of splinters, but they also guide him, show him, experience with him what is around him.

Hands in my pockets I walk down the hallway to the stairs. The banister is covered with handprints, as are all of the walls. Crayon artistry curls in the living room just behind the sofa; I moved it there to hide the pictures, but the pictures grew beyond the furniture. Pencil was used in the dining room, and a combination of the two, pencil and crayon, in the kitchen.

My walls cry out to me: there are children here!

When I stepped out the door the wind chilled me where the still heat had made me sweat. It swept over me, bunching my skin up across my arms and back. I heard the screen door latch with an almost imperceptible snick.

Tyler stood by the gate his eyes wide with excitement. He pushed the closed fist at me, urging me to come look. "Daddy, daddy, look!"

My knees popped as I knelt down to bring myself to his height. The fingers on his hand had turned red in their strenuous effort to contain whatever creature he had grabbed thinking I needed to see it.

I looked at the tiny fist and felt fear. I am not ashamed to say that I hate bugs and would never touch any of the crawling things my sons have no problems playing with. They are something so ugly that they must be evil.

But, not to disappoint Tyler, I smiled and looked at his fist. He smiled back, showing me his tiny teeth still white, unstained. His little fingers slowly uncurled and I steeled myself for whatever minute monstrosity might be waiting to jump out and crawl down my shirt, or onto my face, and bite. I felt the muscles in my legs tense, readying to push me away if need be.

An open space between his fingers widened and I watched this closely for segmented black feelers twitching, but saw none. I watched for the sunlight to glint off of a shiny black or mottled green body, or from round fat eyes, but saw none. I watched for the mandibles and pincers opening and closing.

But the hand was empty.

Tyler slowly rubbed his hand across my chest, feeling the beating of my heart, then turned and ran away, laughing.

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