A goodbye to green windows

The coffee comes out of the moka pot. The day begins like any other: a couple of cookies, a quick read of the news, and then, five minutes looking at the opposite window from the kitchen. 

But today, however, it is strange. There is a farewell. It is not direct, there are no words or hugs, but today something changes. The wooden windows that saw my first steps are leaving today. 

Those through which I saw my first planes take off; those fighter planes that, as a child, scared me so much and, at the same time, caught my attention so much. They witnessed my first romances, my laughter and friendships. The same ones that saw my amazement upon discovering that I was born in this house and that, on that same day, they witnessed the assembly of that Ikea rocking chair with my father. 

Until today, I had never considered that a window could store so much: so many experiences, so many anecdotes. We always think they are for seeing what is outside, but perhaps they are also for storing what happens inside. 

A window does not remember, at least not like we do. It does not know who we were or what happened behind it. And yet, it remains. It is there for years, watching how a house changes, how those who live in it grow, leave, and return. 

Perhaps that is why it is strange to say goodbye to a window. Not because it is special in itself, but because we have left part of our history in it. 

I believe that for those of us who grew up here, the noise of the planes is simply part of the landscape. You get used to it. At first you hear them, but over time they stop catching your attention. The plane passes and you continue with what you were doing. 

For me, it has always been like this. I have never felt that the noise of the planes was something I needed to protect myself from. Perhaps because, when something accompanies you from childhood, it stops seeming strange. It becomes part of the everyday, almost like the wind, the sound of the street, or any other noise that is part of our lives. 

But getting used to something does not mean it doesn't bother you. There are neighbors for whom that noise is indeed a problem, and if these new windows can make their homes more habitable, then the change makes perfect sense. 

They are born from the will to protect people, and of that there is no doubt. They are windows designed so that the noise of the planes stays out and silence can stay in. But while some things are protected, others disappear. 

Green turns to white. Wood, to aluminum. And a small part of what made our homes recognizable leaves with them. 

Perhaps what surprises me most is not that a window disappears, but to think that the places we call home also change with us. And they don't do it all at once. The identity of a place transforms little by little: a window that is replaced, a facade that is painted, a door that disappears, a tree that is felled. Small changes that, seen separately, mean almost nothing, but that, over the years, end up building a completely different landscape. 

Perhaps in a few years no one will remember those green windows. For whoever arrives then, they will simply be the windows that were there before. But those of us who saw them for decades will know that there was something more there. That behind that glass someone grew up, someone fell in love, someone heard an airplane for the first time, and someone, on any given morning, stood for five minutes looking out without knowing they were saying goodbye. 

Because perhaps that is also what it means to live in a place: not only to inhabit its streets and houses, but to leave small pieces of ourselves in them.

It is not a tragedy. It is not even something we can consider necessarily bad. It is, simply, a transformation. 

And perhaps therein lies the true price of progress: that while it improves our way of life, it can also gradually erase what made the place where we live unique.