The wind blew through my daughter’s hair a couple hours ago. Stopped dead in my tracks. Confused, I smiled and tears poured down my face. What are you just then? I’m thinking maybe a bouquet of dead flowers. Or a bell without a clapper. A bird flying into a window. That fish from the Faith No More video. Or maybe to be stunned by beauty is a lot like being a promise right before it’s broken. I have no idea what I am. So I cry and smile and try to remind myself to notice everything.
She is tiny and beautiful and when the wind whips through her hair, I imagine a hand with 100s of yellow fingers waving at me. Is this the way the gods say hello. Why not? I am struck by the ephemeral nature of the wind in her hair. The sudden eruption of wildness raging through her otherwise calmly hanging locks. A magic spell? It’s somehow connected to water, a fluid flow of wavy blonde rain. I stop. Watch. Maybe if I’m still enough, I can will the world to stop.
I want the world to stop.
It’s as if I think all the world’s secrets might be revealed in the relationship between the wind and my daughter’s hair, that if I studied it deeply enough, I could understand the way the sky thinks. Frozen in time, I want to draw a map of the wind’s path through my daughter’s hair, it’s twists, turns, flips, adventures. Where does the wind stop for tea? What can hair teach us about hospitality? Are the wind and hair related amorously? Or are they enemies? Both? Is this perhaps the source of my confused reaction? Love and strife at the root of the windswept.
But the world never stops. And soon, before I’m able to take notes and hear the gods whisper, the wind moves on to trees and old slowly walking couples. My daughter’s hair relaxes, tangled, yellow. And I wonder like a man who for the first time ever saw the wind blowing through his daughter’s hair. Everything is going to be okay.
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