There is a breeze. Always, there is a breeze, sometimes as faint as the last breath exhaled into the cold Winter air from the punctured and leaking lungs of a dying cyclist in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village, one half of a word perennially unfinished, and likely a question, carried forth in that fascinating mist or steam they can never quite convincingly CGI into movies which necessitates a lot of proper seasonal filming, skirting the edge of visibility or hearing and going unrecorded forever, other times strong and fragrant and kicking up the hems of Summer sun dresses and rustling loose the weightless puffs of plant dander that dandelions produce and scattering them far and wide over the rich green fields and well-paved streets of Heaven.
It’s the motion of the angels, invisible and intangible, or the swirling, eddying currents of the disembodied souls who spend their days as sunlight and oxygen and drops of Spring rain. It’s the breath of God. It’s the current of human desire. It’s a gentle reminder that even here, where everything is possible and beautiful and nothing hurts or leaves you empty or lost or wanting that there is still momentum, still somewhere to go or something to be and with all the malleable time in the world to pursue your interests and dreams and realize at last the culmination of all the hope you might have stifled in the life that came before this one for fear of disappointment, there really is nonetheless a path and a purpose, and isn’t it nice that that breeze also smells like fresh tarragon today?
I think so.
