Memories on the Wind

Her memories of childhood were painted not with joy and friendships but with marks of a quiet loneliness. She struggled with friendships, perhaps, in part, because her cheeks were so quick to redden with embarrassment, or because her voice was always hushed to a whisper, unsure, uneven, unsteady. Whatever the reason, she was often an outsider, on the edges, missing and longing. School and studies filled up her hours, day after day. Behind a desk at school, or at home, she would gaze out the window, smiling to herself as the leaves danced in the breeze. She longed for days where she could laze on her back, held by the earth, warmed by the sun, with soft, puffy clouds embracing her, sharing with her, telling her stories.

There was one place in particular, though, an escape of sorts, where she found the release, relief, and refuge she ached for; the farm that belonged to her Italian-immigrant grandparents. This was a place where the deep, rich smell of crimson red tomato’s, plump and bursting with juices, and the dark green leaves that held them, and the deep black soil that housed them, stayed thick in the air, late into the summer. Sometimes, even in the late autumn chill, she would breathe in and her nose could still catch the smell on the wind. The animals, the bugs, the gentle caress of the steady breeze, and the changing seasons all felt like near and dear friends. This was the place where she fell in love with the trees, where she’d sneakily slip off her shoes and socks and relish in the feel of the cool, dark, rich soil kissing her toes. This was the place where her soul found freedom. She’d leap and bound through the tall swaying grasses of the fields like an unleashed puppy; tongue out, wagging in joy. So far removed from a classroom, from the whispered nudges and giggles aimed at her slumped shoulders and head hung low. No unmet expectations or measures. There was only the whispered hush of the grass swaying and the leaves dancing and the rhythmic beat of the old barn door creaking open and shut with the wind. Sometimes, rarely, her family would stay past dusk. These were her most treasured days. She’d gaze, wide-eyed, at the cotton candy skies, brimming with awe. She’d listen to the soft coo of the mourning doves as they began to nuzzle down to rest. When the sun had gone to bed, and the moon shone bright, a whole new world seemed to come alive. Bats dancing above the old maple trees, fireflies glittering like constellations against the deep blue sky, lit up with stars. That gentle steady breeze, and the silent beating of the barn owls wings, barely detectable as they left their roosts.

Years later, she had long grown and moved away. Life had brought her to a tiny, rural mountain town, across the country from where she grew up, far from the farm. She had left behind the maples for thick mother cedars, and yellow larches that towered to the sky. She was a mother now, and all of that aching loneliness was but a distant memory. Her heart was full, her hands balanced babies and meals and dishes and dates on the calendar. She had returned for a visit, and she smiled excitedly at the thought of sharing with her nature-loving children the place that had sparked her heart so long ago.

At the farm the air was thicker now, somehow. When she breathed in it was hot, sticky, and wet, in a way that felt unusual for early Autumn. The big garden was long untended and the soil cracked and brown. No more smell of tomatoes on the wind. There were some things that still remained. The sweet smell of the tall grass, the tall old maples - though most were plagued with disease now. The familiar chirps of the crickets as night began to arrive. Her children squealed excitedly as they saw a few bats in flight. The fireflies, though, never came. She had heard they had long disappeared. The stars in the sky were dulled by the glow of distant new-development condominium lights. A lump stuck in her throat as she thought of all that was lost, the things her children could never see or feel. All of the anxiety of the future and the realities unspoken.

She felt her eldest sons hand slip into hers. His hands sticky with sweat, and darkened with dirt, from a long day of play. “This place is so beautiful, mama,” he said, His smile beamed, his gapped still-baby teeth on display, his eyes glistening, eyelashes full and lush, dark brown hair wet with swooping curls stuck to his flushed cheeks. She smiled, took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she felt that old, familiar breeze kiss her forehead, and all at once her heart felt engulfed with love and hope and melancholy as she caught the silent, ancient thundering of a barn owl, taking off in flight.