Bonnie Wolkenstein Traducción por la autora Windswept

WINDSWEPT

Dirt and leaves, bug carcasses and dust bunnies, eddied and swirled, bounced down the clay tile steps one by one, a soft whoosh followed by the light scraping of dry bougainvillea leaves, skittering to break free of the twirling mass until finally the debris-heavy funnel cloud entered the kitchen.

That within the house became airborne. Papers, coupons, receipts flew off the table. Every crumb I’d missed on the countertop leapt. Thin gauzy curtains danced on the ceiling. The light above the table swayed like it was shipboard. Heavy metal doors morphed from their former inanimate state into petulant youngsters who will not stay in a room with a closed door even though they are the ones who slammed it shut.

I wondered what else would come to life as rain-less gusts broke the spell of slumber and possum-play. So convincing the capacity to freeze under my gaze, I’d forgotten how easily glass panes and plans, wall hangings and fears, coffee makers and dreams, lamps and long-held loves reveal their don’t-play-by-yourrules selves, shake off oh-so-limited human expectation as they await the call of the wind.

The branches of the pirul knocked insistently to be let in, as if it hadn’t been tossing dried berry casings over the balcony and into the living room every day, every night. Despite my asking, quite nicely, if it could kindly send them just a few feet the other direction, to the neighbor’s part of the hillside. A few thousand sprigs of tiny yellow peppercorns wouldn’t destroy the overall unused mattress/bed frame/wash machine/Jack O' Lantern orange candy bucket theme they’ve got going on.

I wondered who else the wind would urge indoors. Maybe the two stray Tecolote cats and whoever they have been yowling to seduce, possibly the only creatures still roaming for sex when the rest of us are told we can’t get within six feet, even though we, too, are in heat. Maybe the band of dogs who rove all night, taunting the ones pent up on rooftops to bark, inciting the roosters to crow, the sleepless woman to restart the guided meditation one more time.