The Wind Whispers to me

A breeze brushes against my cheek and playfully runs through my hair, whispering to me in a familiar voice “Welcome back. Where have you been?” My eyes flutter open, and I find myself in a familiar place. Although it takes me a moment to recognize it, I know I am safe here. I’ve been here before. The grass feels cold against my bare feet, only because the sun has yet to reach the long, soft blades with its warmth. Stretching out my feet, my hands comb through the grass. As I shift my body, my back rests against a tree.

The breeze blows from behind my left shoulder, through my hair, and forms a small tornado, taking the shape of a little girl. As I stand, the girl’s feet touch the ground with controlled force. We stare at each other, both in awe, as if we’re trying to figure each other out. The little girl is grey all over, and I can see through her as if she’s a ghost. She wears velcro shoes paired with mismatched socks. Her knees are scraped and bruised. Her coveralls are well-worn, with small tears and flowers hanging from a pocket on her chest. Her hair is braided into two pigtails, though some strands have escaped. She doesn’t look dirty—just a little rough. Despite this, it doesn’t seem entirely out of place. After all, a preschool ghost child has just appeared before me as a tornado.

“Wow, it’s really you,” she says, her voice filled with wonder. She looks up at me with familiar eyes and runs toward me, giggling. She hugs me around my knees, and I brace for impact against the tree behind me. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us.” Her giggle—it’s so familiar. But where have I heard it before? Who is she? Forgotten about us? Where am I? And why am I not more afraid?

The little girl shows off by dashing away, dissolving into a gust of wind. I can still hear her laugh and play as the gust spirals up the trunk of a sturdy maple tree. The tree’s long, low-hanging branches are full and lush—so lush that I lose sight of the gust. Only the rustling leaves and her cheerful, innocent laughter remain.

This forest is beautiful. The ground is carpeted in soft green grass, and trees are plentiful and strategically placed, allowing for easy navigation. Sunlight filters through the canopy, casting spotlight beams across the forest floor. Birds and woodland creatures seem unfazed by my presence. A dirt path winds through the forest, passing beneath the maple tree. I hear the gentle trickle of water nearby—a modest wooden arched bridge connects the dirt path to the other side of a calm, flowing brook.

A mischievous squeal blows past me, and the gust reappears, taking the shape of the little girl again. A chipmunk, desperately trying to escape her gentle clutches, barely manages to scurry into its burrow. “So close!” she sighs in defeat, then takes a seat on a rope swing hanging from one of the maple’s sturdy branches. In a flash, everything clicks into place.

The rough bark of this tree feels so familiar. The swing—a simple piece of wood, held up by a single rope. The tornado ghost child with the infectious laugh. I should have realized it sooner. She looks at me knowingly, her freckled cheeks lifting into an even wider grin. Balancing her feet on either side of the wooden seat, she grips the rope and swings herself back and forth.

“It’s you,” I whisper softly, my voice catching. “Hello, little one.” The youngest version of myself, my inner child, has taken the form of wind—misunderstood wind, often seen as bothersome before whimsical. She plays with fierce passion and confidence, regardless of what others think. Though she is me, my motherly instincts kick in, and I feel the need to care for her as if she were my own child.

Without hesitation, I run over and scoop her into my arms.

Her hold is tight around my neck, her tiny legs barely wrapping around my torso. Though she is translucent, she feels real, her small weight comforting, like something we’ve both been longing for. I’m overwhelmed with emotion, and a tear falls from my cheek. She pulls back to look at me, curiosity glimmering in her eyes. Her tiny fingers trace the faded freckles on my face.

“Where did they go?” she asks innocently. “They aren’t all here anymore.”

The innocence of the question has me perplexed for an answer that doesn’t involve aging—something a child wouldn’t ever think about. Gently placing her back down on the ground, I kneel to meet her eye level. “So, where does one go to have fun around here?” I ask, knowing exactly how to spark her imagination.

We mirror each other—our eyes shining, our smiles widening. The pure joy of play overtakes us both. Without hesitation, she grabs my hand, and we’re off, the wind pushing us down the dirt path. Though she’s no longer visible in human form, her infectious giggles and playful disruptions to the forest canopy guide me through this dreamlike world.

Running barefoot through the forest feels freeing. When did I stop doing this? With every stride, I gain more confidence, more assurance in myself. I relax into a state of play—a feeling that, though foreign, begins to feel familiar. My hands stretch out at my sides, grazing the tops of bushes. My hair flows freely behind me. I feel unstoppable. I can’t help but let out a chuckle, which grows into uncontrollable laughter. The little gust spins around me. I join in the momentum, twirling in my own personal tornado of childlike wonder.

Visions of my childhood flash before my eyes—endless summers that felt both too long and too short. Exploring my backyard, creating magical worlds in my imagination. The fearlessness I once had, climbing trees, rocks, and playgrounds. Building forts that felt like castles worth guarding. But, as I am once again overwhelmed with emotion, the laughter, the spinning, and the wind suddenly stop.

It’s quiet. Calm. I am relaxed. The only image in my mind is of a colorful, bright little girl with messy pigtails and scraped knees—the youngest version of myself. The purest, most innocent ball of chaos. So why does it feel like I’m mourning the loss of her, when she is, in fact, me? Because she is gone. That version of me will never exist again on this earth. Such innocence lost is worth mourning.

Frustration and anger bubble inside me. How could something so pure, so full of joy, ever be lost?

My eyes open slowly. I’m sitting in my yard, beneath an oak tree, my knees tucked comfortably toward my chest. My journal lies open beside me, barely written in. As I look around at my new backyard, my new house, and my new husband, I try to picture what kind of far-off magical realm I might have created for myself to escape to.

I would have created…

Something about that doesn’t sit right with me.

Would have…

But if she is me, and I am her, then we can still create magic. We can still explore, laugh, run, and play. I’ve decided to honor her. I’ve decided to honor myself. If creating a safe, calm space within myself brings me back to her, then I will never lose sight of how important it is to play.

A breeze brushes against my cheek and playfully runs through my hair, whispering to me in a familiar voice.