Whispers of the Wind

Since childhood, I’d watched the wind weave its way through the tall grass, tugging at dandelions, lifting leaves, and, once in a while, brushing against my cheek like a secret it meant only for me. It carried stories, I was sure of it—tales too old for language, too vast for paper.

Back then, I used to lie on my back in the fields behind our old farmhouse, arms wide, letting the clouds drift past like slow-sailing ships. I imagined they were ferries for souls, floating through skyways only the heart could see.

But I didn’t really believe—not in the way belief takes root deep down—until the afternoon the wind carried me away.

It started as an ordinary nap under the old willow tree, cicadas buzzing in the lazy hush of summer. I closed my eyes for just a moment—or so I thought. When I opened them, the world had changed.

Colors shimmered. Sounds rang clearer, like sunlight had been braided into every note. I stood up, lighter than I remembered ever being, as if my bones had turned to feathers. I reached up to rub the back of my neck and paused, startled. Something there... moved. No pain. Just a ripple. A rustle. A quiet unfolding.

And then—I heard singing.

It was my grandmother’s voice, soft and warm like Sunday bread, calling me through the trees. I followed without fear. With each step, the earth beneath me seemed less solid, more like memory than ground. Eventually, I reached a clearing I'd never seen before. Wildflowers danced in unison, nodding as if they knew my name.

At the center stood a figure. Familiar and impossibly radiant.

It was her.

She had left us nearly a decade ago, her absence a permanent ache in our family’s rhythm. And yet here she was—whole, young, glowing with something more than life. She opened her arms, and I rushed forward, dissolving into her scent of lilac and honey. I wept without shame.

“I’ve missed you,” I whispered.

“You never left me,” she said, her words echoing like they’d been waiting for years.

She told me things I don’t fully understand, truths folded in metaphors, gentle hints about time’s elasticity and the doors emotion can unlock. That love itself was a key—especially the kind that aches and stretches and refuses to forget.

When I finally woke, back under the willow, the sky was a little dimmer, the wind a little quieter. But clutched in my hand was a single violet petal from a flower I’d never seen bloom in this world.

Did I dream? Maybe.

Did I travel somewhere my body couldn’t follow but my spirit could?

Yes.

And now, every time the wind sighs through the trees, I listen a little closer—just in case she’s calling again.