I believe that the wind brings with it bits and pieces of once whole things. It is for us to reassemble these fragments into complete thoughts which fit into our world. Those works of our mind may reflect past recollections or they may be premonitions of things yet to come.
It was on one of those late nights -- or more succinctly put a very early morning, and while darkness covered the land like a heavy woolen blanket -- that I felt a breeze. As I sat in front of the computer keyboard with words in my head that were having a difficult time finding their way onto the computer's keyboard, I felt that whisk of wind.
I was tired but I wanted to believe that I would find the inspiration that would bring a story to life; a story, which when read, would create a sense of accomplishment within me. I searched for words not yet dreamt of and as I lowered my head, hoping almost beyond hope that my brain would find that elusive story, I felt a cool breeze.
The window to my left which always seems to beckon my sight and tends to coerce me away from the keyboard was open that quiet night. I usually paid little attention to the movement of air, that soft puff of wind which touched my face like invisible fingers, but that night the draft garnered my attention.
The air that moved gently over me caused the white lace curtains to move as if they were in a choreographed dance. The wind pushed them away from the wall and upon passing the patches of cloth and as the night's breath moved my hair the curtains were allowed to return to their original positions. I thought about that orchestrated routine and realized that I had never before taken much notice of the beautiful serenade created as the air currents moved around and through the thin fabric of the curtains. It was if the two had lives of their own and each spoke to the other birthing the creation of a wondrous ballet. I wondered how this could be nothing more than mere happenstance.
I can't explain why thoughts come to me, but that morning, and in the quiet darkness of night, the wind passing through that open window brought back memories which I believed were forever lost. It was if that faint breeze, that gentle movement of air with an indescribable aura of familiarity, whispered to me in the softest melody and beseeched me to recall a time in my life many years ago. The wind which was born from I knew not where was hinting at something that I wanted desperately to remember; a memory which would bring a breath of gladness to my melancholy heart.
I never did come to understand what it was about that breath of air that brought with it a sense of intimacy and I honestly don't believe I care to understand it as I find that too much scrutiny can often be ill-advised. I only know that it was as if an old friend, one I had not seen or touched for oh so many ages but greatly missed, had returned if only for one night; a night that brought a smile to my face and assuaged the terrible hurt in my heart.
I don't know if it was just the uniqueness of that night, the exact amount of wind passing through the open window or the precise movement of the curtains -- but no such breeze has since touched me prompting that special feeling. I fear that some things are destined to come into our lives but once.
This story isn't about the open window or lace curtains. The subject matter does not deal with the slight movement of air nor even the way it felt as it draped around me. I do believe that some other set of circumstances may also invite a fond memory to come to mind, but those special moments don't seem to occur often enough. I find it quite odd that a seemingly innocuous event can often inspire the thought of a special time, a memorable place or perhaps someone special.
My window remains open and occasionally, and very late at night, the movement of air, that seemingly innocuous puff of wind, causes the curtains to stir -- but it occurs to me that it's merely the wind and nothing more. I sometimes close my eyes and wonder if the soft caress of the air can in fact be truly nothing more than a slight gust of wind? Who can really say for sure?
There was a time when the world was beautiful and filled with laughter but that was before, not after.
-- Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. Opinions are those of the author.
Religion on 08/17/2017