Building 45

Literary/Arts Journal

Chimes in the Wind

by Chip

Gusts of wind blow, causing the clang of wind chimes to ring out in the distance, drawing my focus, a subliminal message from my past. Birds chirp, oblivious of time and circumstance, only seeking to live another day, to sing their song that they were meant to sing. Playing a role in my mind, escaping to what once was so many years before.

The fragrance of the vast expanse of floral delight fills the air, alluding to a pre-summer's day. Sun kissed iced tea in a pickle jar on the back porch, sunbathing sisters to torment if I chose, and the anticipation of the cool, wet, and refreshing swimming hole right at the edge of town, right on the horizon.

There it is again, the wind chimes beckoning me home from exile. My mom at the back porch cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, patting the concrete steps, beckoning me to come and enjoy the warmth of the morning sun rays and the warmth of her heart as she seeks my company.

Delight crosses my face momentarily as I hear her voice as she calls us in from a long day of play for dinner, and then the dinner triangle when we take too long to respond. Ding-ding-ding-ding, the closer we come the louder it gets. The anticipation of one of her experiments causing our mouths to water knowing that most of them turn out pretty good.

As I run towards the ringing of the triangle, somehow it begins to sound more like a school bell ringing. Now I realize I'm hearing the chow bell ring and the scent that I smell is no longer Mom's cooking, but whatever resembles food in the chow hall. Still, I find myself searching for the wind chimes in the breeze and my Mom on the back porch, hand held out for me to come home.