A hole in the wall is present in all houses. Its part of the building plan, without it, structural completion cannot be achieved. It is acceptable, when it has glass sheet fitted in it, and in some cases metal bars for extra protection. It can then be called, a window. You wanna know what it is called without the usual layers of protection?
A hole in the wall.
And that is exactly what I have at my place, a hole, not a window, no sir! a good solid hole in the wall, meant for purposes that are yet not entirely clear to me. It is a proud hole, not one of those shabby ones, in the darkest possible corners of the wall, behind which is an eerie blackness, that are doors for rats to come and go as they please. This one lies at the exact center of the wall in the main living room. It stands tall.
It is not a breakage in the wall, no, it is carved into shape. A perfect rectangle with border lined with protective wood. It once must have housed something, after all holes are not merely left there in the wall by accident.
Having this hole has had its moments, like when my uncle came to visit us for the first time from Holland, thought that that must be the most transparent glass known to man. He went on and on about the importance of quality of windows and there benefits. It wasn’t until the poor guy poked his hand through the hole, while trying to make a point, that he finally understood why everybody except the most patient had left the room in a fit of laughter.
In the dead of winter, it is covered (reluctantly) with a piece of cloth to shelter from the cold. Yesterday it was taken off. According to my father, summer seems to have set in.
I recall it’s presence since before I could even run. All my life, I have wondered and wondered why would anyone want to have this thing in the middle of the wall, it’s not like we don’t have money to renovate, but nothing ever changes about that hole. We got a new bookshelf installed in by a carpenter on the opposite wall. A new computer table, a whole set of new chairs made. But the hole? Not in this lifetime I’m sure.
I asked my parents, and my grandparents before they died, and my sister and brother, even my younger brother (yeah, I’m that curious!), but nothing.
Not. A. Thing.
My questions were simply ignored. There isn’t even attempted deflection. Just silence. Not a word on the topic is spoken, even when the cold wind coming through the hole freezes the shit out of us.
In the end I decided it must be one of those secrets they share with you when you turn 18. Seriously, enough shit given.