Dear window,

All these years and so much magic between your teeth . . . so many letters and you never failed a delivery.  I ought to kiss your face for this . . .

But oftentimes I worry for your health.  You must get lonely – always facilitating some other being’s happiness . . . yes, I understand what it is to be an echo . . .

And though I admire your morals, I wish you’d steal a letter or two . . . I do wish you’d keep a little bit of it yourself.  A window can’t just be and be and be a window, all the time.  You ought to let yourself into some other world besides your own . . . it keeps the madness out . . .

I write to make you a deal, dear friend . . . today the woman who made me widower is to visit.  (After all, she can’t play dead much longer – the neighbors ought to realize dying as a selfish thing, and then the farce will be up) . . . In any case, we are scheduled to have tea – and I would be quite delighted if you reached over for a broad, sweeping sip . . .

Whlie my back is turned, if it puts you at ease – but quite, quite delighted . . .