What That Gen­tle Whisk Of Wind May Bring

McDonald County Press - - COUNTY - By Stan Fine 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 TH

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.

PHOTO SUB­MIT­TED.

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