I haven't figured this out yet . . .
Pressing hands to the window, we long to go outside. To feel the sun on our skin, the wind in our hair, to breathe some fresh air. Daddy says we can’t, because we’re sick, it’s too cold, we’ll get worse, we’re not ourselves. So instead, we press our hands to the glass, longing to go outside. Prisoners to our illness’ symptoms; runny noses, coughs, fever and stomach aches. Burning with yearning to be emancipated from our tyrant father, who keeps us locked up for the sake of our health. Would we rather tempt fate and suffer the consequences? Absolutely. But we are powerless. So instead, we press our hands to the glass, longing to go outside. Drivers, pedestrians, workers, birds, all as free as the outdoors, incite excitement . . . and envy. If we press our faces, not just our hands, we can feel the cool vibrations of wind knocking on the window; teasing, taunting. Perhaps a pitiful glance might persuade the tyrant to release us, if only we do it together. One, two, three . . . and . . . hold it . . . darn. He’s as cold as he claims outside to be. So instead, we’ll press our hands to the glass, longing to go outside.