The Back of the Curtain

When I was a child, I liked curtains and lace that stirred and floated in the wind. I still have memories of hiding behind them, and for some reason, I remember the smell of the lace. Back then, a curtain was probably as important to me as any toy.

When the wind comes in through the window, the curtain swells and falls back. It’s only a piece of cloth, yet in those moments it seems alive. Maybe because the wind keeps coming, sometimes it stays swollen, holding its shape for a while. That’s the moment I want to slip behind it.

At the instant it swells the most, I want to go around to the back. Miss the timing, and the cloth drops flat, vertical like a wall. There’s just the right moment — and if it works, I make it to the other side while it’s still swollen, without the cloth ever touching me. As a child, I played at watching for that timing.

The wind swells the curtain, and for just that instant, another place — a “back side” — comes into being. An unseen force, making a place to slip into, just for a while. It was a flimsy little space, but back then, it seems, that was enough.