She Used to Talk to the Wind

The woman walked her usual route around the kitchen, muttering to the spaghetti sauce simmering in her pot. Her kids were already seated for dinner in the next room, all five of them in a riot. The youngest was giggling, the oldest was shouting at them to shut up, and the rest were screeching at the chaos and smacking their hands together in enjoyment. Her husband sat slumped dejectedly at the end of the table, scratching his stubble and sliding his eyes over the blue screen of the phone. He had never been one for talk, so the woman found it easier to carry her own conversations.

“Holly’s being difficult, as always. Yes, the one from work,” she said, moving over to check on the meatballs. The sauce bubbled and hissed, a faint pop against the noise coming from the other room. “I know, right! I don’t know how many times I’ve told her I couldn’t care less. This time it’s about how I’m trying to steal her spotlight by joining the church bible group. I don’t even believe in Jesus! Oh, hold on a second.” The woman turned her head towards the dining room, tapping her foot impatiently.

“Dorothea! Simon! Come help me set the table will you? It’s your favorite tonight, spaghetti!” she called, straining her vocal chords over the racket. There were blue, dotted veins pulsing in her forehead. No one arrived from the other room. She wasn’t even sure if they had heard her. Sighing, the woman turned back to the sauce.

“I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said, plunging a wooden spoon into the red mixture and taking a tiny sip. The sauce sizzled in agreement. “It’s just, you know, my husband’s always off doing his own thing and- oh! I forgot the noodles. Ellis! Would you mind boiling some water for me!” She’d expected her eldest daughter of all people would come through, but the only response was more screaming. The woman sucked in her breath and shook her head. Then, her husband gave a shout. She perked up. “Honey, in the lord’s name please be quieter!” he yelled. The woman groaned in exasperation as he continued. “I already have a migraine from all these kids, can’t you just whip it up real fast?”

She stood quiet for a while after that, listening to the burst and pop of the sauce below her. She missed being able to hear anything other than screaming. She missed someone actually talking to her. And above all, the woman missed the sound of the wind. She could hear it for a few hours a day if she was lucky, when all the kids were at school and the dishwasher or washing machine wasn’t running.

It had been the same when she was a child. Everyone was louder than her, and preferred to scream whatever they were thinking instead of saying it. That’s what happened when your parents were old-fashioned and believed the bigger the family, the better, leaving her stranded as the youngest of six. The wind had become a refuge. From the moment when she could walk out of the house, she would make her way to the park behind her house. It was an odd walk. There was a fallen stone slab you could use to cross the creek in their backyard, which led to a thick curtain of vines that you had to go through to arrive at a small and open circle in the middle of some of the bushes.

The woman, then a girl, would make that journey on windy days and sit in the middle of that circle. The wind made a sound as it passed through all of the leaves of the park, a rustling created by the greenery sliding together. She would imagine that the wind would carry all the things that she was saying all over and into people’s ears. That there was an old woman in China or a young boy in Spain who was hearing what she was saying right now, and smiling.

Or the girl could sit in silence, stewing in the wind while the rustling of the leaves breezed away all of her feelings. It was such a powerful experience, to have the wind at her ears, to let it listen to her or carry her words, let it understand what she was feeling that day.

The woman smiled down at the pot of spaghetti sauce before her, its contents dripping and frothing along the outskirts of the pot, boiled over by the plasticy heat that radiated from her electric stove. It crackled and clapped, slowly pouring over the side of the pot. It was such a soothing sound, a warm and friendly undertone compared to the crying from the next room. Like it was listening to whatever she had to say.

The woman shoved her wooden spoon in her pocket and hefted up the pot, smiling cheerfully as the red sauce continued to gurgle. She entered the dining room and was met by a raucous cheer, the clapping and shouting and screaming growing tenfold. She dropped the pot on the table, smiling at the sharp clang.

In the second of silence that followed, the woman pulled up her chair and fell onto it. Her husband looked up from his phone, his mouth opened in an awkward circle. “Spaghetti tonight! I know it’s your favorite and all. But I didn’t have time to set the table or put the meatballs in the oven or cook the noodles or bring out spoons, but that can all be done really quick if you don’t mind,” she said casually, grabbing the spoon tucked away in her pocket. The children seated at the table squirmed in their seats. Ellis, the oldest, twisted up her face and leaned back in her chair. The woman leaned over and began sipping at the spaghetti sauce. It was the only sound in the room.