open window, dubrovnik
The old man took his morning coffee at the tiny kitchen table. A breeze tickled the aging curtains in the open window. The newspaper sat unopened on the table before him, daring him to read the headlines. Only the muted sound of distant traffic broke the morning hush.
Then it came, faintly through the window, a voice humming a tune. A sweet woman’s voice humming a tune he recognized from his youth, a folk song from the Dinaric Alps. The tune curled through the curtains, and the image of scarlet wildflowers on green mountain meadows came to him unbidden. He remembered hiking the high trails, he remembered white-faced sheep dotting the pastures, he remembered the family croft and the taste of fresh-churned butter, he remembered knees that didn’t ache and clear lungs innocent of tobacco.
The woman’s voice grew more clear as she neared. From the kitchen table he saw the top of her head as she crossed by. The curtains curved out of the window as she passed, as if they wished to follow. Her voice faded, but the tune did not. The song settled in. The memories lingered. The newspaper remained unread.
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