The Day the Wind Took me.

A Story by Eden

The day the wind took me was one of those days you simply must greet prior to speaking with winter. Time moves rather slowly these days, you awake to a chill that has seeped through the walls in the night to burgle your rest and you must sit to wait in the oasis of warm tea and blankets, sweaters and oven warmed breakfast until the sun arrives guiltily late from her prolonged stupor. Oftentimes, one will arise early on these days to get a head start on the journey to that warm oasis that makes the first hours of frost pass along with a hurried step. On the contrary, those such as the sun prefer to sleep away the chill, to shiver away conscience until the later hours of noon, but not my mother, and not I.
My mother taught me to live for those moments when you pass over the patches of warmth that fight their way through frosted glass to crawl through your window and rest upon your sofa, or who picnic under a large tree between it's branch's shadow, who sit in the creaking wooden chairs on porches and rock back and forth to the rhythm of the clouds, waiting for you to sit with them and sip your tea. Boy, did I live for them! In fact, I became kindly acquainted with those patches of sunlight. They only come to visit for a few weeks every year, but in those socially abundant weeks, we chatted mercilessly. While other children gathered with their families to feast and shared gratitude, or played in the schoolyard with their friends, draped in white sheets with eye-holes cut out to resemble ghosts, I reclused to my sunlit companions, who allowed me the sweet flavor of surcease on those frigid days.
My mother seemed to be more personally acquainted with them than I. In the early mornings when the sun was still groggy, she would let them hear her deepest thoughts.
Sometimes, she even cried in the grass during her breakfast picnic under our towering oak tree that sat in front of the pond, and I watched from the window that was so often too tightly grappled by frost and fog to see clearly enough what she was speaking of. Her overgrown hair, whose highlighted streaks would fade with summer's farewell, flickered like a candle's dancing flame. The fluidity of it's choreography was tampered with by warped window panes. Her dress too, would sometimes flicker to that same rhythm, as if her entire body was listening intently to the music of fall.
That very music raised me from my rest on one morning despite the time of day being so utterly premature that my good companion had barely even shone through the blinds yet! I politely declined the offer, which was extended to me by my own will to crawl deeper into my bed sheets. Instead, I hopped quickly to the floor and pranced along the wood as if it had been lit aflame and I was trying not to get sizzled alive! Still practicing the metaphorical act of evasion, I scurried to the kitchen and stretched as high as my stunted body would reach when I halted at my pantry. My legs and arms worked together as one to reach the 3rd shelf up, and I grasped the prize bag of tea. As I carried out my text
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daily journey to the oasis of comfort, I did it with hushed care, to not disturb my mother. I had awoken an hour too early, which meant I had an hour longer to drink my tea and eat my oven warmed meal underneath my heap of blankets and sweaters! Mother taught me how to make oatmeal countless times, and I finally have put the lectures to good use. I made two bowls of the stuff to surprise her with a breakfast in bed. Oh, the joy that filled me when I thought of the smile that would be strung along her face when her daughter presents to her with a warm bowl of oatmeal!
Much time had passed as I shared in my typical dialogue with my wonderful patch of sunlight that had pooled onto our sofa. So much time, in fact, that I grew worried that the brisk encroachment of the chilly air would eat up all of mother's oatmeal before she could. The sweet flavors of autumnal seasoning are being whisked away! A lonesome cocoon had grown in my heart, and before long, it's butterfly wings would sprout far and wide across my spirit. Despite mother's pleas to be left alone in the mornings, I took it upon my own sound mind to counter her wishes. Grabbing her bowl, I marched towards the stairs that lead up to her room, but a splash of misplaced color outside the window pane caught my eye. Right where our oak tree gazed upon the pond, stood a figure. Could it be my mother speaking her woes to the sunlight as she always does in these fall days? Perhaps she had a nightmare and needed to tell someone about the fright.
I wiped away the frost on the internal side of the window but it didn't do much for my vision, which was being rudely intercepted by the blanket of mist that put the night to rest.
I grabbed her bowl of oatmeal and stomped out our front door, simply to win my argument with the fog. With every step, the surreal view of my mother cleared, and although my mind had a taste of this honesty, my body could not stop marching in protest with my emotions. I came closer to listen in on what she might be saying to the sunlight. On this particularly frigid morning, the typically talkative sunlight held it's tongue. For on this morning, she was dancing yet again, but her body, once so fluid and improvisational, was swinging with a stiff rhythm. In the wind, her faded hair was dancing along with her dress as it always does underneath that large oak tree, only this time, her feet could not reach the ground while she swayed. Suspended in the air, she still listened intently to the music of fall, and the branches which held her weight were her headphones.
My footsteps slowed as the force of gravity shifted to a horizontal beam and hurled my physic stomach to the back of my ribs. I braced my legs to the ground so I would not get thrown back with it, but my efforts were proven futile by the harsh contact I made to the grass. Icy wind pinched at my cheeks and arms but there was no warm oasis of surcease, the light that shown on our field was too far overpowered by winter's bite. Did the prisms of dew say hello to my tears the day the wind took me? Did the two shake hands and share their condolences before their hour of death arrived with the moon, or had they evaporated into a fog in a shared effort to hide the body of my mother from my eyes? My eyes that had fluttered open one lonesome hour too early in the morning.