When the wind blew the clothes flowed and the hue of colors as the sun hit its linen and cotton shone in multiplicity. Hung one by one along side one another, flying would they be if not for the wire and pins. They were dry already. Three days have past and the same clothes hung. The wire led to a small window with a red pot at the edge. Nothing grew or lived in that pot now. Although it usually had life. Sometimes a tulip. Perhaps chrysanthemums or even some mint there, watered and loved, picked and eaten. Today, and for the past few days nothing but dirt and dead leaves. The pot sat faded and cold. However, no one wondered. No one noticed the absence of those plants and the continuity of the clothes staying put, locked on that wire above. No one noticed their colors begin to barely fade. Flowing in the wind however stuck. Unable to go free.
The wind blew hard the following night and the night after. Stronger than the usual and the colors bounced on those clothes once again. People were inside hidden from whiplash and debris. The clothes whipped furiously. The red pot flew for a moments flight and crashed it's last sound of life upon the pavement three stories down. The colors then were seen by a little girl. The shock to her ears of the fallen red pot brought her eyes up and they enjoyed the colors and the ferocity that the clothes moved in. A polka dot dress, striped tunic, colors in the wind. At her attic window way bellow, the wire was strung across the two apartment complex' to the right of her. She looked down once again and saw the pot in pieces. Staring at first at that pot, she thought nothing. But as she thought nothing she decided to leave her window room and receive the peices before they flew and hurt anything or anyone. Thinking nothing she started down the steps of her house bare foot. The stairs creaked and the floor boards too. Her father hated the creaking noise. Her father was out working today. School was cancelled and she was home alone. She liked the creaking noise. It was the only sound she heard in the house. A sign of her father in the house, still here with her, taking care of her, busy. It reassured his presence. His strong weight in the house comforted her when he came home. She hasn't heard her mother's light steps in two years.
She reached the ground floor and headed to the door. The wind was weak for a moments time and she headed out with a dust pan and broom after putting on her only pair of socks, kittens sewn in the side of them matching her sweater. The wind was enough to make tangles in her red hair but weak enough to see without crying dry tears. The pieces lay a little scattered apart. No piece no smaller than a pebble. Sweeping up the pieces old gran across the street hissed at her to go back inside. Look who's talking the girl thought. Old gran stayed put in her rocking chair out side, spitting out tobacco and chewing again. She never moved and no one bothered to move her. She was ready for what ever came. It was a wonder how she hasn't taken flight among the clouds yet, either because of the wind literally or one day asleep in her chair. The little girl ran back inside with her pan and scuttled to her little attic room.
There was one missing piece, but it was manageable. She had taken all day to glue the peices together. Daylight faded and the air settled. The missing peice was a shape of a fang near the bottom. A piece that looked very dangerous. A ceramic fang was out there she thought. Perhaps she should look for it and she continued to ponder. Tonight she would look for it. The floors started to creak below. Father is home.
The father had a rough day at work. He worked on the large windmill fields doing maintenance. If not for that he was managing other men, sending them off to do installations. He had a daughter, the center of his life. He was happy when he saw her but on bad days she brought some memories he'd rather not remember. Eggs and some left over ham today, that's what I'll make he thought reaching for his keys. Before getting in his house, and before he had his key out for the house, for he took the bus, he saw a glint in the dirt road. Nothing ever took his notice as of late. Nothing changed for the most part. He was always in the motions of life and a fast little girl growing up who adored him. This glint was something new and he took interest and bent down. A ceramic red and white fang. He reached down and picked it up, almost barely cutting his finger. He dropped it into his suitcase side pocket and entered his home.
He was hit with a hug as he setteled down at the kitchen table. He hugged back and kissed her forehead.
He exclaimed his joy and asked her what the excess excitement was for. She responded with a huge smile and headed up again to get the pot up stairs. Father would like what I've made she thought happily. He stood up and began cooking dinner.
The wind blew again really hard. The father did not like it but he made a living out if it. The house creaked and father needed to check out the works of the house again to see if anything was out if order. He didn't want to loose any electricity or gas power. Or worse, have the house blow away. The little girl came down from her little attic room, steady and slowly, the wind did scare her as she felt the house was gonna move and trip her. She wondered if old gran was warm. What did she do out there at night? She thought. She steadied her master piece on the table and waited for father to finish up cooking dinner.
Served and fresh, father and daughter sat at the table and said grace.
