The Wind
Oliver Ray
Do you recall, when we first met, that you convinced us you were the wind? You laughed as you told us and ran
your cold fingers through our hair, tugging on the ends of our scarves and pulling at our clothing until we clutched it tightly around us. It was immodest, but we laughed with you.
As the days passed, you took our kites and ran away with them, startling birds and plucking hats from heads only to discard them, or, on occasion, wear them yourself. They suited you, we all agreed. You were magnificent, and though you could go anywhere, be with anyone, you stayed with us.
So when you clambered down from the apple trees, where you had sat tossing branches to and fro in
compensation for the stillness of that summer, your humanity was unforgivable. We noticed you had scraped your knee, and it was jarring. How could you? We felt so betrayed, and so very foolish. For a short time we had felt truly alive, secure in the knowledge that we loved the wind, and you loved us in return. Though you implored us to forgive you, we turned our backs.
When you followed us home that evening, we shut the windows and drew the curtains. But not completely. Not so tightly that we couldn’t make out your slender figure through the misted glass. We watched you play with our bed sheets and make them seem as sails on some grand seafaring vessel. We wanted so dearly to join you, but now our traitorous eyes couldn’t help but dispel the illusion. The cold, fragile hands that held the fabric, those eyes that seemed at once more childlike than ever. We questioned everything you told us they had seen.
In the night we thought we heard you howling and wondered if perhaps you’d wait for morning beneath the
eaves. But, at first light, when we opened wide our windows to welcome in the sun, you did not accompany her, nor step inside to leaf through our open books and cool our scalding pot of tea. We only shrugged and brought the washing in, damp though it was, and salty like the sea.
The summer tired out at long last, a slow and lonely season. Through the autumn we lived as we had always
done, the leaves using the last of summer’s heat to set themselves ablaze. When they fall, in light but undisturbed descent, I try not to dwell. I wonder, though, is it you I miss, or is it the wind? Everything has become so still. So terribly still.
Do you recall, when we first met, that you convinced us you were the wind? You laughed as you told us and ran
your cold fingers through our hair, tugging on the ends of our scarves and pulling at our clothing until we clutched it tightly around us. It was immodest, but we laughed with you.
As the days passed, you took our kites and ran away with them, startling birds and plucking hats from heads only to discard them, or, on occasion, wear them yourself. They suited you, we all agreed. You were magnificent, and though you could go anywhere, be with anyone, you stayed with us.
So when you clambered down from the apple trees, where you had sat tossing branches to and fro in
compensation for the stillness of that summer, your humanity was unforgivable. We noticed you had scraped your knee, and it was jarring. How could you? We felt so betrayed, and so very foolish. For a short time we had felt truly alive, secure in the knowledge that we loved the wind, and you loved us in return. Though you implored us to forgive you, we turned our backs.
When you followed us home that evening, we shut the windows and drew the curtains. But not completely. Not so tightly that we couldn’t make out your slender figure through the misted glass. We watched you play with our bed sheets and make them seem as sails on some grand seafaring vessel. We wanted so dearly to join you, but now our traitorous eyes couldn’t help but dispel the illusion. The cold, fragile hands that held the fabric, those eyes that seemed at once more childlike than ever. We questioned everything you told us they had seen.
In the night we thought we heard you howling and wondered if perhaps you’d wait for morning beneath the
eaves. But, at first light, when we opened wide our windows to welcome in the sun, you did not accompany her, nor step inside to leaf through our open books and cool our scalding pot of tea. We only shrugged and brought the washing in, damp though it was, and salty like the sea.
The summer tired out at long last, a slow and lonely season. Through the autumn we lived as we had always
done, the leaves using the last of summer’s heat to set themselves ablaze. When they fall, in light but undisturbed descent, I try not to dwell. I wonder, though, is it you I miss, or is it the wind? Everything has become so still. So terribly still.
