The Wind That Carries Us

Slowly swaying back and forth on our patio bench, I gaze out toward the front garden. A delicate breeze blows though your cosmos and my coneflowers, rustling them slightly. As I feel the light spring rain that it carries with it, I wonder where you are now and how your venture today is going—you are a smidge later than usual after all.

I always find myself worrying about you when you go on these walks. The last time I expressed my concern, much to my chagrin, you just smiled and shrugged it off. “Don’t worry about me Darla. Remember how I jogged five miles every morning? Walking two is just a pleasant stroll.”

You conveniently leave out how those jogs of yours were when you were in your thirties.

This has been part of the routine for a while now, but while I can grow tired of your stubbornness at times, I can never grow tired of you. You’re usually the first to wake at the stroke of dawn around 5 am, yet you’re always so careful to ensure you don’t interrupt my dreams.

Every day, regardless of weekday or weekend, you head toward the local market to chat with the cashier and bring back a cup of coffee for each of us, and while it’s almost always lukewarm, it’d be much too crass to comment on it. Little things like these remind me I’m still the luckiest gal in the world. Besides, hot coffee is too much for us now. It’s much better to have it cool.

I expect to see you strolling down the cobblestone garden path at any moment with a gentle smile, waving at me with a “Good morning, Darla.”

Perhaps you made another stop along the way, walking two miles is no easy task for a ninety-year-old after all, even if you say, “I still have some youthful strength left”. Then again, maybe you’ve taken to being fashionably late today like how you were for our first date.

It was at one of those new drive-in theatres on a clear starry night where we saw Lost Horizon. I was an aspiring poet of twenty-two and you were twenty-three. We’d known each other ever since high school, but it wasn’t until you had gotten a full-time job and a Chrysler 37’ Airflow that you asked me out on a date. You were an hour late, and I was not amused. But it did patch things up when I heard the poem you wrote for me.

Your beauty shines in the limelight

Brighter than the sun of day

Your elegance is a true delight

A diadem that blows me away

The windchime’s melody takes me back to reality. The wind is picking up, and I look back over our garden again feeling confused. Roses… yes there should be a couple of rosebushes over by the hedge, next to the daylily planter. My eyesight may not be the best anymore, but all I see instead is a mess of poppies sheltered by some sort of wood covering.

I know you never cared to maintain the roses these past several years, complaining about how often they need to be trimmed, yet I didn’t think you’d go through the effort of replacing them before I woke up today. We always garden together after all.

It’s been a pastime of ours ever since the kids moved out and we realized we had a lot more free time together. We’d coordinate the colors of our garden’s flowers, weaving them together like a tapestry, each hue complementing or contrasting with its neighbor in such a way that made gazing at them in the wind almost hypnotic. At least we did before our backs gave out.

But why poppies? Sure they can be pretty, but they’re pretty in a plain sort of way. They are much easier to maintain, so I guess that could be the reason… No, while you are certainly practical minded, I think the reason may be more sentimental.

When you were drafted into the war in ’42, I was mortified at the idea that you would leave me alone with the kids, what would happen if anything happened to you—I couldn’t raise him on my own. It didn’t make me feel any better when you said you were going to be an airman. I remember you telling me before you left, “I’ll be up in the sky, far away from the ground”. I told you not to go too far up—heaven could wait just a bit more.

You still went, but every chance you got you would send me letters. I found to be comforting at first, being able to listen to you, even if it was from a sheet of paper.

━━━━━━♡♤♡━━━━━━

“Dear Darla,

Today was a beautiful one. I got to see France today from the air. It feels funny to be among the clouds looking down at the ground instead of the other way around. I call it ground watching, superiors call it scouting. Lots of flowers to look at. I would send photos, but the censors won’t let me. I’ll eventually find a way to show you some of the good that’s here…”

━━━━━━♡♤♡━━━━━━

Then you started sending sketches of poppies with each of your letters. I found it morbid, sending me a symbol of memorial and remembrance from the Great War to try and calm me. It always had the opposite effect of course.

Why would you send your wife something like that? Reminding me that other people have died in a war before didn’t exactly make me feel sunshine and roses when I thought what that could mean for you. I didn’t want to have a flag emblazoned with “Cpl. Jerald Warner” on our fireplace mantle.

But I suppose you did have a peculiar sense of humor back then, and I guess it also didn’t hurt that the sketches you made of the poppies were always so detailed and pretty.

I look at the wristwatch you gave to me for my 40th birthday, engraved with the likeness of carnations alongside the frame. It says it’s now 8:30am and I feel a bit more worried. Where could you have gone off to? The town isn’t that big, and it’s not like you can drive anymore, or at least you shouldn’t.

I crane my neck outward just enough to peek around the patio’s corner and look at our weathered driveway. It’s empty. Letting out a sigh I manage to get myself back on my feet and to the walker. Looks like I’ll have to call Chris to find you.

I walk inside of our quaint little home and make my way to the phone, the floorboards creaking with each step I take. We’ll have to get Chris to fix that for us sometime. As much as you insist you can do it yourself, I feel that Chris can probably do it much better. If he can build an entire house for him and our grandchildren, I doubt some floorboards would be a challenge.

I dial our son’s number and wait patiently.

*riiing, riiing*

*click*

“Hello? Mom?”

“Hi Chris, could you do me a favor and try to find your father for me? I think he took the old Blazer out for a drive again, and he isn’t back home yet.”

“…Dad? Blazer? Are you—never mind… Don’t you remember mom? We sold it a week ago.”

I shake my head at the question. There’s no way I could believe that; you love the Blazer to death, Jerald. Why would you sell it, and how would you even manage to pull that off under my nose? I can’t remember exactly when you got it, but I remember you saying you wanted to go off-roading in the thing one day, four-wheel drive and all.

Thankfully Chris managed to talk you out of it at the time. I’m glad that we raised him to have some sense, although it would’ve helped if he had learned better humor since he's jesting at a time like this.

“Chris, please. Now is not the time for jokes. Could you find your father? I’m worried sick for him. You know how active he can be. What if he’s fallen down?”

A moment passed with only static.

“…Chris? Are you still there?”

“…Is Janet with you right now?”

“Janet? No, you know your sister is always busy these days. Why do you ask?”

Chris takes a deep sigh, and I hear him muttering to himself. “That’s great, just… great. She was supposed to be there today.”

“Chris, what are you talking about? I can still hear you, I’m not completely deaf. We can talk about her later if you want, but right now I really need you to find Jerald.”

“Mom, how many times… Dad is… I-I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can do this again right now, the worksite is really busy and I just... I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

“Chris, honey? Please, you should really be out there looking for your father—“

As Chris hangs up, I take an inward sigh. I suppose he doesn’t have much sense today.

Frustrated, I think about calling the police, but then I remember the last time I did you ended up too embarrassed to go anywhere for a week.

Perhaps I’m being too paranoid, you’re probably just preparing some sort of surprise for me, or perhaps you’ve gotten into a long conversation with one of our friends again.

I put the phone down and go into the kitchen. When you get back, you’ll probably be famished; I’ll make sure I have some oatmeal ready for a late breakfast, or perhaps an early lunch.

***

I find myself sitting on the patio once again, listening to the wind chimes clash together like a disorganized symphony as the clouds begin to darken the sky. It’s nearly noon but I still have not seen you. I've searched everywhere in the house that I could still get to, yet you were nowhere to be found!

The rain has picked up, now pouring down in full force, soaking the ground and drenching my mind in anxiety. Why have you not come back yet? The food has gotten cold, and I feel myself worrying much more than I was before. You’re never this late, at least not without telling me. You always find a payphone to use if you’ve been kept by something.

Our phone rings.

I get up as quickly as my old bones will let me—finally you’ve decided to call! What’s kept you out this long, why didn’t you call sooner? Questions storm through my head until I find myself picking up the phone.

“Jerald? Oh thank goodness you’re safe. What happened, you’ve had me worried sick you know.”

“Mom? It’s me… Chris.”

“Oh, sorry dear, I thought... Were you able to find your father? He’s never out this late without telling me, did he tell you something?”

“Mom, please calm down. I’m sorry for earlier, today is just really stressful and… I’ll um… I’m going to be coming by shortly. Just please try to calm down before I get there.”

“Chris, I am calm. Do you know where your father went? Can you tell me now?”

There's hesitation for a moment until his voice slips out, strained.

“Mom… Dad is dead, he has been since last month.”

"…" For just a moment, the wind is silent. All I can hear is Chris’ voice echo through the telephone.

“Don’t panic Mom, please. I can’t bear to keep seeing you like this. I—”

I hear the wind blast into the phone on Chris’ side.

“I’m coming now, they just issued a flash flood warning. The rain’s picking up and I want to get to you before the roads flood. For now, just sit tight and close the windows. I love you.”

My arms feel heavier as he hangs up. The wind continues to howl outside and soon I find myself feeling detached. I have so many questions yet no way to form them into coherent thought as I move over our hardwood floors with the walker. Silently, I struggle to close the windows one by one, but eventually I manage.

This is just a nightmare, isn’t it? You can’t be dead. You’re tough, resilient, always able to get back up. This is just a bad dream, and I’ll wake up soon.

My body shuffles over to the kitchen. The oatmeal is still lying out on the counter. Can’t have this out for too long or else it’ll go bad, I’ll just put it in the fridge to eat later.

You’re my rock, I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you. There’s no way you could just leave me like this, right? I have to open the fridge door slowly or else the mustard will fall down.

I’m just overthinking again. You tell me I overthink things, like how I can spend weeks thinking about the next line of my poem. I remember the last time I did, you told me that I didn’t need another line, that I already had the end completed.

Chris is right, I need to calm down. Worrying isn’t going to help me much. Take a deep breath, Darla, you’re doing fine.

I stand there, bowl in hand, in front of the fridge. A cold breeze flows from it and falls past my arms and torso before wrapping around my toes. I involuntarily shiver.

That’s strange, when did I make this much oatmeal?

***

I hear the front door open then close. Footsteps approach on the hardwood floor.

“Hey Mom, I’m here.”

“Chris…”

Without another word he sits down at the dining table next to me. I have a pile of your letters in front of me from the war; I was reading them as I was waiting for Chris to arrive.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any of your poppy drawings. I didn’t think I had misplaced them, but at this point I’m not even sure what is real.

“Looking for the poppies?”

I nod silently to Chris; I can’t bring myself to say anything more without risking breaking down and sobbing again.

Chris helps me up and we walk toward the front door, toward the garden.

As it opens, I realize that the storm has faded for the most part. Things are back to a gentle drizzle and breeze. Chris begins to guide me toward the flowerbed.

“Chris, you do know I was talking about the drawings when I said poppies, right? The ones that your father made?”

“I know Mom, I know. You probably don’t remember this so… well it was in his will.”

As the poppies get closer, I realize something is off about them. Underneath the wood covering are the poppy drawings, all framed in glass and placed standing upward in the planter box.

"…" *snort*

I find myself letting out a chuckle, then another at the unusual sight once the absurdity of it sinks.

You always had such a strange sense of humor.