The wind is strong this morning.
It has my attention.
I think I’ve always loved the wind.
My first memory of encountering the wind was when I was a little girl, maybe 6? It was summer, it was hot, there was no relief. A breeze! I was grateful. I wanted more.
Never in my childhood did I think wind was a bad thing. I was mostly cozy inside the house, staring at the serene reflection of a freckled brunette in the window, meeting my own eyes, trees dancing violently in the dusk beyond. At the table. Having supper with my family, or playing a board game. I loved sitting back and not being out in the wind, just watching safely.
As a teenager driving a rickety 4-cylinder ‘83 Ford Escort, however, I saw a new side of the wind. It pushed against my little car and I had to fight with the steering wheel to keep it on the road; the wind shoved snow into my path.
Walking back to the house after milking cows in the evening, I’d take a longer route, wearing my dad’s old ski jacket, and feel protected yet again as I stood in the dark, letting the wind swirl around me.
When Andrew and I were first married, my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Often by the time they find it, and reach a diagnosis, it’s too late. Such was the case for my father. One Sunday morning in late spring, I sat by his hospital bed and we watched through the window as a storm rolled in, tossing the trees limbs leaves. One of the last things he said to me was that he wished he could be out in that storm.
He loved stormy weather.
I’m sitting on my condo balcony now, listening to faint chimes, the wind is louder now, remembering, my coffee grows cold, I’m growing old, a tear escapes.