Waiting for the Breeze
These days my family has been suffering financial crisis. In order to save money in the most we could, I decide to stop use air conditioner. On this first night of our cost-cutting adventure, it’s only 30 degrees, but the three kids grumble anyway. They’ve grown up in 22-degree comfort, protected from the heat outside.“How to get these windows open?” my husband asks. Shaking the window handle, he finally releases one. Lots of dead insects lie on the windowsill. As we opened the windows one by one, the night noises howl outside—and in.“It’s too hot to sleep,” my 13-year-old daughter moans. “I’m about to die from this heat,” my son yells down the corridor. “Just try it suck it up,” I tell them. In truth I’m too tired to argue with them. My face is sweaty, but I lie quietly listening to the cricket choirs outside that remind me of childhood. The neighbor’s dog howls. No doubt it’s a squirrel. It’s been years since I’ve taken the time to really listen to the night.I think about Grandma, who lived to 92 and still managed my Mom’s garden until just a few weeks before her passing away. And tailing old times, I’m back there at her house in the summer heat of my childhood. I move my pillow to the foot of Grandma’s bed and angle my face toward the open window. I flip the pillow, hunting for the cooler position.Grandma sees me tossing and turning. “If you’ll just quietly watch for the breeze,” she says, “you’ll cool off and fall asleep.” She raises the Venetian blinds. I stare at the filmy white curtain, willing it to flutter. Lying still, waiting, I suddenly notice the life outside the window. The bug chorus shouts. Neighbors, sitting on their verandas until late, speak in flowing drawl that soothes me.“Keep watching for the breeze,” Grandma says softly, and I “uh-huh” in reply. Bugs ping the screen. Three blocks away a train rumbles by.I catch the scent of fresh grass clippings. Then I hear something I can’t decode — perhaps a tree branch scratching the shop roof next door.Sleepy-eyed now, I look at the curtain. It moves…“Mom, did you hear that?” my seven-year-old blurts, tearing me from memories of old. “I think it was an owl family.” “Probably,” I tell him. “Just keep quiet listening… ”
