By The Will Of The Wind

By the will of the wind, these desert faces look to the south-east and smile. It isn’t victory they smell, nor the promise that their brothers and sisters made it out alive. It isn’t the thought of their long lost loves that carries them high on this godforsaken day. It is the wind itself, that announces, with its affirming touch, the possibility of change.

Like Russian defense, we let ourselves be influenced. I give you the tools to change me, without corrupting my spirit. Next year I may fall in love with a violinist who has the softest hands that bear the calluses of classical training. I may fall in love with a Persian salesman, his face eroded by the desert sand, his hands rough from bargaining.

We will love quietly for a while. Up until the point he knows I am me and I know he is him, and people start to sense the wires of mystical unity when they walk between us. It will then be time to peacefully proclaim our shared intentions, upon which several households of parental wisdom will stagger so passionately they will frighten their horses.

And it will be war. It will be war alike those my forefathers faced. Wars in the deserted South, Wars up the crowded North. I will be wondering about my brothers and sisters, remembering their familiar faces, in the knowledge I would not recognize them anymore. But, there will always be the wind, unexpected and untamed. And there will be clarity.

A history is held together by seemingly uneventful days.

Let us not forget the butterfly effect of our births, and each step following another.