We used to fall asleep to the wind at night. The soft wind of evening

would spread the paints of the sky across the horizon, showering the 

cosmos with pockets of light. What started out as blobs soon smudged

into an ombre of purple, blue, and indigo. The nighttime wind would 

rustle the leaves of the old elk tree that we used to sit under, talking 

about anything and everything. The wind was like a lullaby, drifting 

softly to our ears and pushing us one step closer to oblivion. I’d slump 

against your shoulder, unable to hide the droop of my eyes. And you’d 

only laugh, acknowledging the wistful sigh of the wind with a good natured

smile. The summer breeze broke up the stuffiness of a warm evening, 

wrapping us both in the seamless cocoon of its embrace. The wind danced

alongside our dreams, lilting and swaying to the haunting rhythms of 

unconsciousness. The wind was enough to tear me from the grip of reality 

and insert me into my own fantasy, one where we danced together through 

oblivion. The songs of the wind, beautiful in the same way chimes are 

after a storm, would float through the air and close its warm fist around your 

mind, drifting you slowly into sleep, long after I had relented to its clutches. 

The wind was, perhaps, a maternal figure. It cared for us, sheltered us from 

the fear of growing up, and sang us to sleep with the most heavenly choir of 

notes. Every night, the wind possessed the ability to bring sleep upon us, and 

I doubted if the wind would ever not be enough. The wind is always enough; 

you and I are enough.