Not at all alarmed, I rolled to face the window, and opened my eyes to the curtain fluttering in a steady breeze. And there was the source of such a soft and not-quite plaintive song: it was only the wind, wending its constant low whistling in through the slight gap I'd left open for air last night.
A change in the weather, and my not-quite disappointment that my reverse lullaby was only slightly less than human.
Time to get up.
It stayed with me all day, that almost-melody, my soft comfort, my pillowed memory.
|Wind From the Sea, by Andrew Wyeth|