Wind Farm

I grew up on a wind farm.  As a child of seven years, I spent warm summer days out in the field, running among the turbines chasing my dog.  When we both grew tired we would lie in the grass, staring up at the massive rotating blades and listening to the lulling hum.
         Back then I did not know my connection to the outside world.  I did not know of coal stacks spewing smoke to blacken the sky.  Nor did I know of pipes running deep below ground, robbing the earth of its thick black blood.
         I did not know my parents had converted their farmland a few years before I had been born, trading rows of unprofitable crops for rows of windmills.  All I knew was the warm sun and wild green grass-and of course, the wind that always surrounded me, caressing.
         It was not until that winter the world began expanding for me.
         My father had been ill for as long as I could remember, his lungs blackened from the job he held as a youth in the coal mines.
         One bitterly cold night I was awoken from a deep sleep by my mother.  She told me she had to drive to the hospital and would return in the morning.  My father’s breathing was too labored.
         I had never been alone at night, and I stayed awake the entire time she was gone, the blankets wrapped around me tight, my arms wrapped around my furry retriever.
         My mother returned in the late morning without my father.
         She began making frequent trips to the hospital, but she did not bring me with her until a month later.
         My father was hooked up to a machine that was breathing for him.  He was pale, gaunt, and his eyes were dim as they watched me approach the hospital bed.
         I wanted to leave.  I wanted the warm summer sunlight, the hum of my windmills.
         My father was dead the next day.
         My mother changed after that.  She became distant from me, spending most of her time shut away in her room.  Neighbors began making the long trip to give us meals or tidy up the house.  They would chat to me about idle things that did not matter.  They were all heavy-set, middle-aged women.
         It was only on my eighth birthday that a different neighbor arrived.  He lived further away, in town, and had been a good friend of my father’s.  He was young, with dark hair and eyes.  He wore a black coat with the collar drawn up over his neck.  Spring was beginning to wake the earth, but cold winds lingered.
         He flashed me a wide smile.
         “My dear, how have you been?”
         “Fine,” I replied.  The standard answer I had learned adults gave when things were not, actually, fine.
         “I have something for you.”
         He fished in his coat pocket and drew out a small box.
         “Happy birthday.”  He stooped and kissed me on the cheek.
         I had never had a man besides my father kiss me.
         “Is your mother here?”
         “She is in her room.”
         He hesitated a moment, then walked around me and knocked on her bedroom door.  When he received no response, he slowly opened it.
         I caught a glimpse of my mother sitting on the windowsill in nothing but an oversized t-shirt.  She was staring out towards the windmills, but as he walked in she slowly turned and looked at him.
         Her long blond hair was covering empty blue eyes.
         He shut the door.
         The box held a gold locket.  Placing it around my neck, I opened it and was disappointed to find it contained nothing.
When he emerged a few minutes later, he left the door open.  As he passed me he smiled again.
         “I figured you could put whatever you want in the locket.  What is most important to you.”
         I watched him walk away, and turned to find my mother standing beside me.
         “It is nearly spring,” she whispered, her eyes less cloudy than I had seen them in a long time.
         I wrapped my hand around the locket, pondering his words to me.


         That summer was my last among the windmills.
         Someone somewhere had decided they were no longer profitable to operate.  More coal had been found, more men like my father were mining it.  The news came at the end of summer; my mother found me lying beneath the windmills and told me.  She said we were moving into town with my father’s friend, who was now her friend.  There was no way to make a living here anymore.
         When she left I laid for a long time, staring at the rotating blades.
         Then I stood, opening the locket which was still empty.  I held it towards the wind, then snapped it shut.
         At that age I truly believed I could capture the wind and carry it with me forever.