there is no wind. no movement.
the dust on the box is now its paint
also its paint is the sunlight that comes in from the creek of the window left ajar.
the windowpane, is broken from the edges.
on days of storm, this window strikes itself hard, back and forth, sounding an alarm for an empty home, to run and bring back clothes drying on the line.
there are no clothes. there is nobody to run. nobody to bolt the window shut.
everything is still. and melancholy.
but there are noises. the chirps? the cooker whistling? of water running- overflowing from the bucket, of an urgency to close the tap. of the gate. the gate opening, the fan whirring, a home. noises of a home.

there is colourlessness. the curtains untouched for weeks.
the walls, magnolia on some parts, cement on most. paint on some parts, crayons on most.
a broken toytrain, a doll with no hand sit on the showcase. there. dust sits on the toys.
carefully painted pots, filled with soil, but devoid of life. the soil craves to be watered.
but there are sunsets. was it red? or orange?  the aroma of tea. the sound of the box of biscuits being opened, sound of children screaming to catch the ball,
chirps? birds returning to their nests. returning home.

oh.
there he is, with his wrinkled veiny forehead resting on his wrinkled veiny hands, in the corner of the room, at the window, all alone, lying on the cot.
his eyes red and watery, of age, of wistfulness, could be either.
his foggy memories and and the window banging in the other room don't let him sleep.