A/N Just a small one shot about John Meredith. Hope you all like it!
I am more awake on windy days.
The air punctures to my very sprit and awakens me with so many memories that I dare not think of them all. The little ball of pain in my chest would seize in agony if I did. So I face reality over facing the memories.
The painful memories Cecelia left in her wake.
Cecelia loved the wind…. she reveled in it, skipped into its delicious coolness, wrote poetry about it, and danced in joy with it. I do say she danced with the wind, not in it, for her steps were as light as a sweet breeze treading lightly over the grassy fields.
She called the wind her muse. She said it inspired her with the gossamer fancies of lace delicacy.
She was my muse.
The sight of her inspired me with as many gossamer fancies of lacy delicacy as the wind could have bestowed to her. When she was around I was as good as a poet. She made me skip, write poetry and dance in joy.
Just like the wind did for her. She was my wind.
She's gone.
She left behind heartache, and took my joy. With her gone I felt there was no reason to pay any attention to anything but my own agony. I became reclusive and only the light pressure of the wind against my skin seemed to bring any consciousness to me. The written word and the wind were all that was real to me. I felt I lived in a world of words and wind, and that took my mind off the pain. I basked in my avoidance of the pain.
Then one fateful day I went to the spring to get a drink. A fair-haired woman who seemed the embodiment of the moon came there. She was tall and slender, something my Cecelia of the wind had never been, and she had heaps of moon's gold on her head for hair where Cecelia had had raven feathers. I found her name was Rosemary and that her lips must have tasted of dead bittersweet roses for their scent on birch bark.
I walked her home. Dear reader, I felt tired of living my world of words and the wind. I felt tired of unconsciousness to anything beyond the walls of my study and of my ignorance to anything outside of Glen St. Mary.
She showed me her house.
It was a house that was surrounded by a blanket of wind and flowers. I knew from the moment I was truly stirred to conscious by the wind's teasing of my skin (I have become accustom to being half-conscious in order to be civil) I would be back. Anyone surrounded as such by the wind would be to me a friend.
In a way when I am up on that windy slope over looking Four Winds I can almost feel like Cecelia's there, giving me the benediction to move on. It is like the wind, or Cecilia's sprit, is moving me on to Rosemary and the new love I have for her. The very wind, which to me embodies Cecelia, is alight when Rosemary is present. The breath taking view matters not to me, it is the wind surrounding it which takes me by surprise. Rosemary is bathed in the very thing which Cecilia loved most of nature and which reminds me of her most. It is like Rosemary is unconsciously bathed in Cecelia's aura. She is unconsciously like the wind.
Rosemary is like a sweet breeze where Cecelia was an awakening gust.
But a breeze, however light, is still wind.
And Rosemary is like the wind, only a different kind.
But I like it just the same.
A/N I got the idea for Cecelia to love the wind because I love it so much, and John Meredith mentions how the wind wakes him up. So I put two and two together (although they didn't equal four) and wrote this. I just thought that maybe it wasn't JUST the wind that wakes him up; maybe it was also some memories connected with it….
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