Of the Wind

Her

I hugged my arms tight, skin to skin, as I felt his soft, familiar touch drip down, chilling my bones, arm hairs tingling bashfully, bracing against his crisp current. I was mesmerized by the form emerging before me, revealing itself. I had once talked with the wind, considering it a close confidant. Had he returned to me after all these years?

As a child in Ireland, he first appeared to me, following my gaze as I stared upon the Croaghaun Cliffs, daring my mind for a dangerous climb. I had felt him join hands with me, shouldering past yet dragging me forward, igniting every emotion within me, bursting it from its confines as I yelled out, empowered by his chilling embrace. I had lived in the magic of the fields, letting the winds wash over me, uplifting my imagination. I could see all of it. I could taste the secrets the winds held close while melting at their passion as they mingled and seized everything around them, forming and deforming. No one paid mind to the tousled girl who claimed she had befriended the winds, running wild with them, rationing her time by the seaside. Instead, they told her to grow up. I had never considered such a fowl thing until he had vanished from me, so I did. I grew up and moved past the emerald cliffs, settling for paved roads and sidewalks, forgoing unmarked paths.

Him

Resembling deep red clay and golden honey, I saw it tucked away. Ravished by a familiar sensation, I crept closer, peeking through the treetops.

Entranced, I leaped downward, meeting the soft, wet earth, startling the leaves into a frenzy of fits and protests. A sense of awe had its hand clamped over my mouth, stunning me into a stricken silence unable to attest to their outcries. I moved forward, for I had seen this strand once before, long ago, billowing in the fields of Ireland. Had I found her? My mind became overtaken with speculation and then released with the realization that this was my little Nora.

…

I come from a realm where spirits glide freely, soaring through worlds unseen. We take no distinct shape but contort our presence as we intertwine, divide, and multiply. Our emotions are a language we speak with astounding fluency. Once, the elders were overtaken with a hurting hatred, and the world was torn in two as great winds hunted the grounds, fusing both water and carnage and unearthing rock and bone. A history of true power left untapped in our current day. We bring liberation, but with that feeling, our wake becomes littered with mounds of decapitating destruction. As I said, we are eloquent in passion. We are a civilization that has lived since creation, tight-lipped with many secrets. We have walked beside Death, listening to his whispers, and accompanied Darkness in her deeds.

Most yell at us, unleashing anguish, so we listen. We connect to souls brave enough to harness our wakes and glide in our domains, for those creatures meet us face to face, smiling with devilish eyes and a fiery core.

Our kind fulfills roles, walking a distinct path for a time. Some of us encourage the birds to fly, lifting their wings as they accompany them during migration. Those spirits are known as guides, and they see the world from above in a wiser lens each season. They trek through the skies and return home after the last frost. I used to envy them and the tales they gathered from the southern lands and those they met in passing.  

Others are Hunters. They are called to arms to bring forth wrath upon the world. They walk with prophecy, hunting down and gathering cries of repentance as they seek reckless voices of courage, the ones who command the seas to part, the skies to bow, and the mountains to slither. Those souls enchant the Hunters. Hunters spread far and never return in one lifetime. Most spirits serve time as a Hunter. It is our greatest calling to spread far in hopes of becoming part of a great story, but not all stories are significant because of a bold prophecy but rather because of the hardened journey one takes before greatness. As we crossover from hunting, we inhabit somewhere new, accepting our next role of enlightenment, solitude.

Some of my kind rise and fall like breath, teasing the creatures around us, ruffling rigid feathers, blowing a stack of paper across hallways, igniting sails, or kissing cheeks and burning them rosy. We run downhill, tripping and rolling with you, feeling empowered by the purity of your laughter as it warms our spirit because although you cannot see us, you embrace us. We are called Travelers. We are the gusts of wind present at weddings, the cool breeze that laps at your neck on a hot day, or the soft, feathery kisses that tickle each hair upon your leg. We interact the most with creatures and live a journey of solitude as we roam searching for the one soul we connect with. We accompany those who have passed on but are desperate to visit and dance with the wind chimes on their daughter's porch or dry the tears of those still grieving. We have evolved into empathy, following a calling empowered by a haunting curiosity that we must obey. I would know as I have been traveling the skies searching for copper.

We are the winds, the gales of the world. Each of our spirits belongs to a tribe of Guides, Hunters, and Travelers, and sometimes we have lived as all three.

…

Him

I was mesmerized by the sight of the copper strand you kept forcing behind your ear in exasperation at my releasing it. I watched how it got to its knees once more and begged to be in the open air, where it could twirl in my presence. It loathed the prideful lobe you had it entrapped behind, commanding it to keep in line. I could only chuckle at its dismay as you trudged on, trying to outpace me. Your stubbornness is apparent still. How gleeful it was as I followed. Desperately reaching out for me, it sprang from the binds that kept it in place. Your pace faltered, eyebrows knitting together, perplexed at this brash strand of disobedient hair. Hair that was rich with red soil, your eyes still of the fields glowing green, and skin that mirrors the white tips upon the ocean waves, you had captivated my gaze once more.

I reached out to you, sliding my form down the smoothness of your pale arms. Shivering, you pulled your arms tight as your heart rate climbed up next to mine. I had abandoned the skies to follow you once before, but I had left, and you never returned. I waited at those cliffs and imagined your robust smile as you dug your palms into the numbing dirt, leaving behind the iron to dry on the rocks where your knees had fought because nothing could prevent you from progressing forward and onward. You have grown; however, your eyes still inhabited the same fire they once did when we held hands, running through the sweet open air under the silver sky, wrapped in the cool salty sea breeze.

 Your soul matched my spirit.

"Is it…" you begin to quiver. 

Your strong discernment alerts you to what you already know, but still, there is a hesitation, an uncertainty.

Your feet are of stone waiting in the chill of us, unwavering, listening, hoping.

 "Yes, Nora..." I respond to your unanswered question, feeling your cheeks warm as your eyes intensify, "It’s me."

Gasping, you breathe in the brisk air, chilling your lungs, and then you expel it. I embrace its form and mold it with mine, sending it over the hills just as before.