I enjoy watching the windmills. They look so surreal and calming. Sometimes when I am unable to sleep, I think about them rotating pensively, and I close my eyes to be taken many miles away in my car passing by the windmills, which generously blow me a kiss that ruffles my hair through the open window.
I think my love for windmills originated during the first grade during a road trip across the United States. In my memory, this stands out as the brightest day I can remember. I have fragmented recollections of the whole journey though I doubt their credibility. I remember…
The bright sunshine directly overhead Bright but not really overbearing The undulating roads that led All of us bold and daring folks to take the road Work undone and have fun
My old memory feels like a tape recorder message… I looked up at the sky. It was bright sky blue. The clouds were a happy, lofty shade of white. The air gave off the languorous scent of endless field soils on both our sides. The sunroof was wide open. The scarf fluttered over my face. I watch the clouds change their direction. The were waving us adieu as they hurried along the opposite way.
“That one is an elephant.”
“Can you see that? It looks like a-a big dipper.”
“Hehe…That’s a cloud not a constellation. It looks more like a hat if you bend your neck.”
“What about that one?”
“I got it! That cloud is shaped like a, err, like a, let me see, a..”
I looked down for a second and the windmills caught my eye. I stared at them till I was sleepy. Before I knew it I dosed off.
I woke up again.
I looked up at the sky. It was bright sky blue. And the clouds were….
It’s funny how I seem to remember my thoughts more clearly than what actually happened. My imagination has over time coalesced with my history to form memories. I can’t distinguish between past fantasies or reality. When I walk by a place I have gone before, I can vividly recall my thoughts when I stood there the first time. My thoughts having amalgamated into my memories have become inseparable from my childhood.
I do not know how much of this happened. All I know is that I have a library of impressions which I borrow at times to reminisce in joy. Some of these are humming windmills and the wisps of smoky white clouds which I tried to take home with me.