The Wind

The girl shouted into the wind, “Will they remember me? Is this existence enough?” The wind did not respond. It merely kept blowing, and the crops bowed for its power, and the leaves became caught in its current.

And so the girl, overcome with uncertainty, became a historian of her own life. A moment was not lived if it was not recorded, so she took note of every moment. Every memory immortalized in a photo, a journal entry, a memento to be placed on a shelf—a makeshift altar to remind herself that she was, in fact, alive. And the wind kept blowing, and the crops bowed for its power, and the leaves became caught in its current.

And so the girl, overcome with fear, wondered, “If I do not remind them that I exist, how quickly will my space in their world cease?” A moment was not lived without someone else to bear witness to it; she shared all the best parts of her—the parts worth remembering. Her existence turned into a collection of mementos and pictures to be placed on altars. And the wind kept blowing, and the crops bowed for its power, and the leaves became caught in its current.

And when her life was lived, the girl whispered to the wind, “Will they remember me? Was this existence enough?” The wind did not respond. It merely kept blowing, and the crops bowed for its power, and the leaves became caught in its current.