There’s a bang at my window. A loud bang. And another. I open the blinds and peep. Funny. I live on the first floor, why would I do that?
It’s the wind. The wind that used to carry with it the chill of snow, the promises of tomorrow, the songs of the trees with bare branches howling at the purple sky, weeping. The wind that now carries with it the freshness of Spring. Some nights now, it’s a soft thud. Some nights, a big bang. Because now, the window stays closed. It begs to be let in. To be with me.
The window used to be open, rain or snow or sun. Not anymore. I keep it closed. It carried with it too many promises. The chills asked me to endure too much. The songs can be deafeningly silent. The fragrances can be too sweet.
Like thoughts shut out of a mind, the wind is shut out of of the window now.