The wind always blew softly here. Whispering and calling to me, it was apart of me. My limbs would sway back and forth and I would feel like one of the many kids I have seen coming and going, flittering around, dancing and jumping, never rooted to the ground. The people buried here, they’ve been here for a while. Over the years, their company has grown incredibly boring. Rotting corpses don’t offer great conversation pieces, their stench being carried around on my wind; the wind that made me laugh as its light touch rippled across my harsh skin, flowing along through my hair, and dancing on top of my soft feet.
Once in a while someone would visit. They would take very little notice of me, instead focusing on the ballet that was forming far in the distance, the one that my pulled back limbs and hair revealed. The rolling hills were the backdrop, the colors swaying like me in the wind. The clouds became dances as they rolled by, puffy and white, they mock the swans that people swoon over, yet have a grace unto their own.
When the people visited, who ever they would be, they would draw in their breath deeply, as if to announce that the very sight could take it away. Some smelled of cigarette smoke, others, the soft fragrance of lavender and ivory. Once in a while, one of the many children that played up at the school would drop by. They would notice me. They would spin around and look and stare and watch and I would feel beautiful. When the wind came, I would rustle my limbs. I liked their staring, peering eyes. I would slowly drop down a sheet of leaves, showering them with the different colors.
The special children would stare for periods of time that could only be compared to eternity. They would take off their multi-colored shoes and socks, then they would copy the wind and dance across my feet. Theirs were cool, mine colder still. They would laugh and I would laugh and I would take center stage. For all the happiness and joy, it would all meet a swift death as one of the older ones would come and talk in loud, piercing voices, beckoning the children away. They would gather their socks and shoes, make awfully strange faces, and leave, lightly touching a tendril of hair as they passed through the gate and disappeared up the hill that separated me from them.
Then I would be alone again. I would have no company but that of the corpses, nothing to watch except the distant ballet. The scents would drift in, as would the noise, but it just taunted me. Always so close, never close enough.
It happened one time that a special child came to me, as before. It had been many years, it seemed, since the last one had visited. Her face was that of deep thought. Taking everything in, but not touching a thing. She made me wonder. She was fair, her brunette hair shining in the sun I parted to let in. Her eyes were intense the entire time, just watching. A small bird, a robin, flew from its nest buried deeply in my hair, and through its entire course, the girl watched him. It seemed to interest her, her deep gaze following him around my boundaries. When it returned back to its nest, her eyes wandered again.
She was so unlike the others that came to visit, the ones who pressed their lips together and groped at each other in a way that hinted that if they didn’t, they’d float away. She seemed more childlike, younger than the others were. She didn’t fit their molds, standing out in her soft, pale colors instead of the bright, bold yellows, reds, and blacks the others wore. This special girl came alone, with a pad of paper, and pencil. I was intrigued ever more. She sat on the border of my life, gracefully dropping down onto the stone. She peeled back the pages of her book, and raised her pencil, poising it to strike the page.
She looked at me. Her eyes met mine, and then she looked down to her book. The pencil pierced the page, and started flying across it. Marks and dashes. Her breathing was the only noise save for the birds and wind.
She carried on like this for a while. I wanted to see what she was marking down so badly. I tried to lean in towards her, but my feet would not move. I was rooted. The man and woman that shared my life with me were gone from my senses, but the faint smell of oranges filled my nose.
Her pencil slowly stopped, and she signed. It was soft like the purr a cat makes when stretching. The ballet was going full speed, dipping and turning and whirling and swaying. The girl looked out to the ballet, but her attention was only captivated for a mere moment. Her eyes turned back and met mine once again.
Finally, she held the book up for me to see. I could not believe my eyes. She’d drawn me, the real me that people usually miss. She drew the grass soft and lush, the trees standing tall and harsh with their rough bark. The leaves danced and swayed. The graves of the corpses were on the edge. In the center was my face. Soft, lightly drawn to not call much attention, but I was there. The drawing was so accurate as to that moment, I was amazed.
My eyes lit up as I scanned over the picture again and again, picking up new parts of the image I had missed the times before.
She turned the book away, and pierced the page again with her now blunt pencil. She scribbled something down and held it back up for me.
‘Thank you...’ she had signed it Fiona. Thank you...the words drifted through me, and I could here them ringing in my ears. A breeze swept by and I let it dip down to caress her face. Her blue eyes shined bright, and she smiled a truly innocent smile. It was one that was of true happiness. The girl closed her book and stood up. She gazed around much like she had before. Then she bowed her head slightly and walked through the gate, brushing her hands lightly over my branches. |
Submission Name: Soft Breezes
