Tell Me if the Wind's Still Blowing

It’s a crisp October morning. Walking down Main Street, I watch the wind rustle the shedding trees, shaking off bits of orange and brown which fall to the ground, covering the world of yellowing green in sepia shades.

His apartment is on the eleventh floor. They haven’t been there in years, but my feet take me directly where I need to be.

When I ring the doorbell, no one comes to the door. A faint, barely audiable voice rasps a clipped “Come in,” and I turn the knob, pressing my shoulder against a door that seems like it hasn’t been opened in years. With a sudden start, I realize that perhaps it hasn’t.

I find him in bed, and at once it’s evident that he won’t be getting up to greet me.

He seems so small. Smaller than I ever remember him.

“Tell me if the wind’s still blowing,” he rasps softly. He seems to accept me then, and the years between us are suddenly gone. And I begin to cry, because I know that he’s asking me about much more than the wind.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, it is.”

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