The Window

By Peter Bowden


The crack came first sharp and wrong like a sentence broken in half. Glass let go of itself in a small rain, and the ball finished its long mistake on the living room rug, turning once as if to see where it had landed. Outside, the crowd inhaled, then found its voice again, the game stitching itself back together without apology.

Inside, the house stood surprised. Light poured through the new opening, dust lifting into it, each mote a tiny planet caught in sudden daylight. The clock kept time. The chair remembered the shape of a man who wasn’t sitting there. Summer moved through the room as if invited.

He picked up the ball carefully, as though it might still be warm from the bat. Somewhere a boy would be counting the seconds, rehearsing an apology, hoping the ball might be forgiven its way back home. He set it on the mantel, a white fact against old wood, and taped cardboard over the hole until evening could decide what to do next. When the cheers drifted in again, softer now, the house listened. Some breaks are just openings that arrive early, letting the day step inside.


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