I keep thinking about what you said about the wind. How it tells the truth. Well, Ellie, I still don’t quite know what you meant by that. But it does give me comfort.
There’s been more breeze this spring than usual as the storms pass over us and on to the next city. The rain never stopping here; you remember that, don’t you.
I’ve been inside a lot since William passed and I swear I can hear the legs of his track suit swishing in the hallway as he calls my name, asking where he left his wallet. And so I open the windows, listen to the breeze.
I think about time. When William first found me in the skating rink and my hair was up or when we sat by the lake in twenty year old bodies and then when our son came and we couldn’t connect like we used to and we almost left each other.
I was thirty-five when I started seeing our future. Him lying still in a bed, his soul going as it does. And now. The house is quiet and our kids have kids and they visit, sure, but really all I have are these open windows. And I think. The wind, it stays. It doesn’t age. It’s maybe like what you said, Ellie. How it tells the truth. Oh, Ellie, I do wish you were here. If only, to explain what it all meant to you. The wind and the truth and time and what stays. What is it, do you think, in the end, that stays.
your writing is so environmental — there’s always a strong sense of place and climate, and not just from description but the character’s voice and feeling, too. it’s awesome and genuinely inspiring 💛
this was just beautiful.