Waiting for the Wind ~ Short Story

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Waiting for the Wind

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I have waited for the wind with a nervous anticipation. Today I look out the window and see it barreling down the back paddocks, churning up the dust and stirring the dried fallen leaves. As I step into the kitchen, I can hear the deep echo of the wind chimes from the verandah and the screen door shuddering, like the weather is trying to break in.

‘I reckon I’ll go today,’ I tell Mum, who sits by the window, pondering on some silent thought. It looks as if she has forgotten about the coffee in front of her. I try to sound resolute and sure of myself for her sake. I want her to be confident in me. I want her to know that I can move on.

‘I’m glad,’ she says, stirring from her reverie. ‘It’s the right thing. For both of you.’ Of course she thinks it’s the right thing. It was her idea. She said I’d be doing good by him, spreading a part of his ashes in a place that meant so much to us. Mum has a lot more faith than me. Maybe she does know best, but some part of me can’t shake the feeling that if I spread his ashes it’s as if I’m throwing him away. But I’ll do it anyway. I don’t think I can bear the weight of him anymore.

Mum always seems calm, but I know she struggles just the same. When Dad died it was the little things that hurt most. The things you don’t expect, like not hearing his whistling in the morning or not seeing his muddy work boots lying at the front door. Small things you never realised were so safe and familiar until its absence is unavoidable. I know Mum feels this too because the empty mug and puddle of liquid in the sink tells me she has once again made the habitual mistake of pouring two coffees instead of one.

I pull my coat tight around me and step outside. Dad’s ashes are tucked away in my back pocket. It’s as light as anything but it feels like stones. I climb into his dusty old ute and take a deep breath as I shut myself in. The car hasn’t been touched in weeks and it still smells like him: grease, smoke and just a hint of coffee. I try to commit it to memory because I know that eventually the smells will fade just like he did. It almost feels like I’m breaking some unspoken law. I shouldn’t be here without him sitting beside me. But I’m just delaying the inevitable. I start the engine and pull out of the driveway.

I make it all the way up to Inglewood before I start crying. I am amazed I have made it this far. I still can’t quite pinpoint how I feel about this moment. I want to honour him the right way, but the bright liveliness of Dad doesn’t seem to connect with the pile of ashes in my pocket. Watching them disperse into nothing doesn’t feel right in my mind. I have been waiting for the right opportunity, but I have also dreaded it. Feared it. I take a left towards Kooyoora State Park without needing the sign. I know the way because we have travelled it so many times before.

In the summer, when life crawled out beneath the chill of winter, Dad would take me camping up at Melville Caves camping ground. It had a special place in the family. It was our place, and any other visitors were just temporary guests in our sunlit kingdom amongst the great slabs of rock and golden wattle trees. I couldn’t possibly count the number of days we spent hiking the site and sleeping beneath the stars throughout my childhood. It became so familiar that navigating the long trails became second nature.

As the ute rounds the bend, the steep green cliffs rise up ahead. Great granite boulders that have sheltered thousands of years of history swell out from the earth and clamber over each other. I park the car and come to stand at the foot of the path, bearing the force of the chill and the climb ahead of me. The trees bend towards me as if eager of my arrival. I feel vulnerable to them. Years ago, they were witness to my utmost joy and freedom. Now they are silent bystanders to my misery, privy to my deepest tragedy as I discard the remains of my father in some attempt at a meaningful gesture.

As I make my way up the track, the burn in my thighs reminds me I am not the same energised kid I used to be. Recent months have made me weary and slow, but I push on nonetheless, only pausing momentarily when a wallaby comes crashing through the brush and pounds heavily across the path up ahead. I continue following the natural paths where recent rainfall has created rivulets and indentations in the mud. The climb is steep and uneven, but it takes little time to reach the caves. It is now that I try hard to the old stories Dad used to tell me. If there was one thing to know about Dad, it’s that he loved a story time.

Crouched in the darkness within the large fissures of weathered stone, he’d fill my head with fantastical tales of a bushranger on the run, hiding out in the very spot where we stood. I the excitement, palpable, as he told his tale and we weaved and ducked our way over and around the site. He was so spirited that the story of Captain Melville and his treacherous crimes would come alive.

But inevitably his words would turn to another story. There was a deeper history here and Dad loved history even more than he loved a good story. It was important and Dad would make it known when he pointed out the Grey Box scar trees, stripped of their bark to make shields, bowls or other tools. I spot one now, a sure sign of the Indigenous history and the spiritual veins that run deep through this land. They too, sheltered and survived in the unique geology of Kooyoora. Dad liked teaching me this. He wanted so badly to on the knowledge his mother had taught him and so I listened wholeheartedly.

I finally make it to the lookout. The air around me has settled into complacent stillness for the first time today, like it knows I need more time with him. I stand, holding my breath and clinging to the cold metal rail. A world much bigger than me and this moment stretches out before me. Trees and hills and so much green. And the sky so blue, like the ocean, like his eyes, like the tears on my cheeks.

I him. Every detail I can possibly muster, from the sound of his voice to the exact hue of his favourite shirt. I his smile, his laugh, his stories. I how he loved this place and how he loved me. I that someone’s life and spirit is not defined by the body they rest in. My father and his memory transcend death.

I have been waiting for the wind and it is now that it returns. At first it is so light. A brush against my cheek like a kiss, a breezy tug against my clothes like a tight embrace. Then it builds, ringing out like the soft whistle of a wedge tailed eagle. The trees bow in its presence, and I, stirring in fearful expectation, surrender to it. I pull my father’s ashes from my pocket and spill the contents over the edge. It lands in the curls of the wind, pulled outwards and away, dispersing across the land.

When I watch him fade, I expect to feel loss. He is, after all, disappearing into nothing. But I think I have finally figured it out. Reflecting on this place has helped me see how people and memories can become entrenched in time and place. He is not gone. He is instead forever interlaced with our place.

In the end, the wind and I have carried him home.

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I wrote this short story for school as an Australian narrative of place. I took a day trip to Melville Caves, took some photos and felt inspired to write a reflective story that interweaved Australian culture, history and flora and fauna. I hope you enjoyed!

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