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Open WindowsAt night I would lie in bed,the spotlight outside my open window cast shadows like black stick figures which danced elongated on the walls of my room. One night I woke to a knock at the front door, then the sound of my father greeting the town's Constable. Suddenly his voice became the low growl of a dog, and the door's slam sent vibrations which seemed to move my bed. He called upstairs, reporting the fine to my mother, his words running like lava, and she telling him to calm. His shadowed silhouette bobbed in black on my wall, the clacking of hard steps filled my ears, then was replaced by his voice from the neighbor's lawn calling the man outside in a fit of anger that would leave spittle on the chin, eyes bloodshot, his Irish face the red of Hearts. I remember my mother's sobs, then my father cursing the man who would not leave his house. I lay in bed, watching my father's shadow grow larger on my wall, then heard the front door open and slam again. I got up from bed, crept to the window and silently slid it shut, then pulled down the shade. J.R. Corrigan |