Behind the Window

From my childhood in the suburbs near the East Bay foothills, I remember warmth and birdsong. The air was still throughout the afternoons, though a wind often picked up in the evenings. Leaves rustled with each gust while the sounds of far-off traffic rumbled in a constant undertone. As the leaves danced, they revealed glimpses of lives hidden within the squat, blocky, single story homes of the neighborhood. I don’t remember seeing many people when I made my way through the neighborhood, though there were signs of their presence all around me: cars parked on the streets, toys tucked onto the driveway, carefully tended plants arranged next to slightly wild lawns. I only got to know neighbors from two households on our block. Of those two, I only ever saw one family from the far end of their driveway.

There isn’t much to see of other people’s lives in the suburbs, at least when compared to what you can see in a city. Windows tend to be smaller, shaded beneath awnings and porches, and set back a large distance from the sidewalk behind large yards. The glass seems much more reflective than the windows I’ve grown used to in the city (though that might be my imagination.) The residents make liberal use of curtains, screens, and other window coverings—and so do the city dwellers, except there are plenty of city residents who pull them back into edge treatments. Then it’s a lot easier to glimpse the colorful walls, furniture, light fixtures, and plants that express the residents’ personalities and hint at the lives they lead. I never knew if my childhood neighbors preferred white walls, wallpaper, or a drench of color; whether they left their walls empty or added artworks or photos; if they surrounded themselves with the eclectic, the cozy, or only the barest of utility.