Blowing in the Wind

     The wind was up. Blowing. Relentless.

    "Gale force," she said.


    "Worse," he said.


    "How could it be worse than gale force?"


    "Well, easy," he said. "Just look at it." 


     Which she had been doing for the last ten minutes, watching as the the wind rearranged the dirt in the bald patch of grass, then picked up that scourge of urban life, the plastic bag, carried it up, up, spinning, then hurled it towards them, a sudden splat against the picture window, a giant white eye on the glass. They both laughed and backed up.


    "Quit your staring," she said.


    "Careful, Mister," he said. "Remember you are only a bag."


    "Yes," she said, "and not even compostable."


    The bag slid an inch down the window, as if in agreement, then a sudden gust lifted it up, up, then a shift in the wind pasted it against the window again, inches from her face. The implication was clear: Take that, which made her mad at first, genuinely angry until she started to laugh, more than a chuckle, but, thankfully, short of hysteria. The bag trembled on the window pane, but didn't really move. The force of the wind held it plastered to the window, inches from her face.


    "That's the nastiest bag I've ever seen," she said, and turned away to avoid the offensive thing.


    "Hmmm, a bag with personality," he said, accepting the assignation of conscious behavior to a thin piece of white plastic with three red concentric circles.


    "Well, I wasn't thinking. . . "


    "It's okay. The wind will take care of it," he said. "Don't worry."


    She took a step back, to show that she was abandoning their daily first-thing-in-the-morning pointless conversation, and wondered, with a whiff of compassion that bordered on interest, how he would extricate himself from this conversation-going-nowhere.


    "It's blowing in the wind," he crooned. "How many roads must a bag blow down before you can call it a bag."


    "And how many bags must rise up to the roof before they are sent to the trash," she sang.


    "The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind."


    "The answer is blowing in the wind." 


    They hit that last note perfectly and together they laughed, also perfectly, the gift of a long partnership. 

Comments

  1. I love it. Thank you. So much of life indeed is blowin in the wind; as are the answers.

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  2. ❤️❤️❤️. Love this! Nora

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  3. Love it. Almost as much as your book. Jerri

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  4. Sweet vignette. Thank you!

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  5. Love it. No problem with the new format. The picture is great!

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  6. Merci beaucoup!

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  7. Small story. Strong visuals. Stays in my head.—Shari

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