When I was seven, I used to believe the wind was alive.
Not just moving air, but a spirit — invisible, curious, and kind. It spoke to me in rustling leaves, in curtains that fluttered for no reason, in the soft whistle that slipped through the cracks of my window at night. I thought it knew my name. Maybe it did.
Every afternoon, I’d run to the field behind my grandmother’s house — barefoot, grinning, with my blue kite pressed against my chest. The ribbons were worn and frayed, but to me, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. Grandma would call after me, warning me not to run too far, but her voice always faded before the horizon did.
The field was my whole universe — golden grass swaying like an ocean, the sky endless and kind. I’d let the kite fly higher and higher until it looked like a tiny star that belonged only to me. And sometimes, I’d talk to it.
I’d tell it secrets, stories, silly things — how I wanted to see the clouds up close, how I wanted wings instead of shoes. The wind never interrupted; it only listened, warm and wild.
One afternoon, though, the sky turned restless. The air grew heavy, darker. I should’ve gone home, but I didn’t. The wind called louder that day — pulling, teasing, daring me to hold on tighter. My fingers burned against the string, my heart pounding with something like joy, something like fear. Then, with one sharp tug — it was gone.
My kite shot into the clouds, twisting and spinning until it disappeared completely.
For a moment, I just stood there — watching the empty sky, string limp in my hands, a hollow ache settling in my chest. Then I ran. I ran until my legs gave out, until Grandma’s voice found me again, soft and steady.
She brushed the dirt from my knees and said, “Don’t cry, my dear. The wind just wanted to borrow it.”
I didn’t understand then. I thought I’d lost something precious. But now, years later, I think she was right. Maybe the wind keeps everything we let go of — our laughter, our small heartbreaks, our childhood wishes whispered into the air.
And maybe, sometimes, it returns to remind us.
Because every now and then, when the breeze brushes my cheek or lifts the edges of my hair, I close my eyes and smile.
It feels like an old friend saying hello.
And in that moment, I am seven again — barefoot in the golden field, chasing the wind, never afraid to lose what I love.
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