The Lookout Tower

Dressed in a long winter coat, scarf and hat, I begin my daily climb, two steep spiral staircases of a seven-metre-high lookout tower in the park, with a wintery view as a reward.

I’ve been drawn to this tower every morning since I retired three months ago. Though each day seems the same, the park always offers something new – a bird’s song, a coloured leaf, the way the light filters through the trees. Here, at the top of the tower, I feel a kind of peace. 

The icy air stings my lungs, but I love it. It is a reminder that I am still alive, still breathing. With the children grown and living their own lives, the house feels empty. Here, above it all, I escape the silence, even if just for a moment.

Pulled by a barking dog, excited children's voices or brisk footsteps, my eyes travel briefly in their direction. From them my gaze wanders across the park to the balustrade where my hands, wrapped in pink fleece mittens, rest, and then returns to the panorama. Although my hands are wrapped in mittens, I can still feel the chill seeping through the fabric.

It is freezing. The trees in the park are old giants, their bare branches sometimes creaking in the wind. Once they stood here green and full of life, but now they are just skeletons, veiled in a delicate coating of frost. A lone squirrel scavenges for food among fallen foliage.

A mystical white haze floats over the lawn. Yellow-withered reed along the bank of the canal reflect in motionless thin ice. A white downy layer clings to the dark green leaves of the rhododendron. The clusters of beautyberries wear icy white caps. Blackbirds, tree creepers, great tits and blue tits eagerly nibble at the bright purple berries. The birds hop over the branches that bend heavily under their weight. The small birds peck at the clusters at the ends, the large birds rush at the base. As the bush becomes emptier, the branches spring proudly back to where they came from. 

The trunks and bare branches of the trees cast long shadows over the park and filter the soft light of the low-hanging pale orange sun, which rises no higher than halfway up the trees at this time of the year.

When the children were small, we often came to this park. It was here that they learned to ride bicycles, with trial and error. I still remember my daughter racing through the park for the first time without training wheels. Her face beamed with pride, and I ran after her, my heart beating with joy. That was a long time ago. When my daughter was small, she always held my hand. Her little hand felt warm and familiar in mine. She was always curious, always exploring. I can still see her, her red boots leaving little footprints in the mud, her scarf blowing in the wind as she ran through the park. How I wish I could go back to those days. But children grow up. They become more independent, find their own way, and before you know it, you only have memories to hold on to.

Now my daughter is a mother herself. Her life is busy, full of work, appointments, and caring for her children. We speak occasionally, though not as often as I’d like. Sometimes weeks pass with only the occasional brief message – an update, a photo of the grandchildren. It’s as if life keeps pulling her further away, and all I can do is watch from a distance. 

Sometimes it feels like we live in different worlds, connected by blood, but separated by time. I wonder if she remembers those days in the park, when everything seemed so simple. Maybe one day we will return to this place together, running through the park with her children, just as she used to do. Until then, I will stick to my own ritual, my daily climb to the top, where memories keep me company while the world around me moves on.

Every day I see the same walker with his dog. He nods at me, a silent greeting we’ve perfected over time. We’ve never spoken, but perhaps that’s how it’s meant to be. In this space, words seem unnecessary. We share a quiet understanding, both here to escape the noise of the world below. 

The tower is more than just a place with a view. It’s a reminder that everything passes, even the harshest winter. But just as the seasons change, so will the leaves grow again, and the days will grow longer.

A beautiful robin lands right next to me on the iron railing. He proudly pushes his orange-red breast forward, turns his head from left to right and cleverly examines me with his shiny black beady eyes. 

The silence thickens, the air feels heavy with a secret I can almost touch. The robin perches nearby, his gaze penetrating, as if he wants to tell me something. He hops closer and chirps shrill and high. Time seems to stand still. 

I stretch out my arm and open my hand to receive the creature. At that moment everything around me starts to blur as if I am looking through a thin curtain, to a place that is not quite here. A slight sense of unreality runs through my body. The trees, the birds, even the sky is distorted, as if the landscape is slowly receding into a distant memory. The frost on the branches melts into thin wisps of mist, the grass turns into a hazy patch of green and white. My hand, resting on the cold metal, seems transparent for a moment, almost unreal.

The park dissolves like a whisper, blending into the mist as if the very air is unravelling. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’ve truly left the park or if it hovers just beyond my sight. A chill remains in my hands, as though I’ve only just released the balustrade. The robin's gaze lingers in my mind, its presence as close as a whispered breath. Every day I climb this silence, a space where my thoughts settle, where the trees and the birds stir something inside me, ideas that flicker just out of reach. Then, without knowing exactly when, I find myself back in my study, the scent of nature still lingering in the air, like a memory slipping just out of reach. Life, like the seasons, keeps turning.