The Blue Window

The house at the end of our street had a blue window that was never opened. The rest of the house was ordinary — plain walls, a small courtyard, a mango tree — but the window was the deep, patient blue of the sky just before the first star appears. Everyone in the neighbourhood had a theory about it.

Some said the woman who lived there had lost a child, and had painted the window blue in his memory. Some said the paint was very old, from a time when blue was the colour of protection against the evil eye. Some said there was no reason at all, and that the woman had simply liked the colour.

When I was twelve I finally worked up the courage to knock on her door. I asked her, as politely as I could, about the window.