A Word About My Memories
The gentle, tinkling sound relaxes me as a soft breeze jingles the dangling members of an unseen orchestra together in an unwritten song. As a small child, the red and green birds clanged together outside of Grandma’s kitchen window as she hummed about the kitchen making cookies or pies, or whatever the occasion required. The low whistle of the hollow, wooden cylinders that hung on Aunt Mary’s porch will forever be etched in my memory as a part of the birthday chorus as we ate cake and ice cream on the porch during those hot May days. The blue butterflies and flowers that caught the door of my classroom announced the entrance of another friend as we celebrated another day of learning together. Wind chimes are music when there is none. They are the song when nothing else seems to fit the occasion.
They are the tune of my memories. They are sad, happy, and calming. As an old woman, I now look around my own home and see that the memories of the wind chimes are still here. My grandmother’s birds now hang from my own kitchen window and I often hum along with it as I bake with my own grandson. Aunt Mary’s wooden chimes now adorn my front porch and sing to me on hot May days. Only the blue butterflies of my classroom are no longer in my possession, but are etched in my memory like a song in the breeze.
