Rocking Chair Tales: A Visit from the Little Breezes
There is a porch not far from here, though it doesn’t appear on any map.
It sits at the edge of a clearing where the grass is soft, the trees stand tall, and the air always smells a little like pine and memory. On this porch, there is an old rocking chair—the kind that creaks just a little when you settle into it. The kind that holds more than one lifetime of stories.
And when the wind is just right, the Little Breezes come to visit.
They’re not quite children, and not quite whispers, but something in between. They tumble in from the meadow, through the branches of the cherry tree, and across the porch floor where sunlight makes warm patches like old quilts.
They don’t stay long. Just long enough to tug at the pages of a forgotten book, rustle the fur of a sleeping cat, and slip through the screen door like giggles escaping a secret.
But on some days—like today—they bring a story.
They carry it in the folds of their invisible sleeves, gathered from a goldfinch’s feather, a turtle’s sigh, a wren’s fussing, and the hush between pine needles.
They bring it to the one sitting on the porch, hands resting, heart open, eyes soft with remembering. They bring it to you.
And if you’re very still—still enough to feel the breeze on your cheek and the creak of the rocker under your ribs—you might just hear them begin:
“Once upon a hush…”
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