Siniša Soćanin
Eyebrow of the Wind
The toddler was fascinated by the wind. His nostrils tickled, dampeyes brought to awareness.A feather came from above, bewildering thread of namelessmarvel, tumbled just to touch his finger before mounting the worldagain.Too elfin was the arm striving for the magical windborne being.But the boy remembered. Each wind unsettled, each inexplicablesight throughout the youth called upon the finger’s memory of sky’selusive, far flying eyebrow.. . .The man was fascinated by the distances of the world. His mindwas tickled by them, heart brought to awareness.Once again he came from above, descended in a jet just to spendChristmas at his old home before mounting the world again. Hisfather welcomed him as usual: “Found what you're looking for?”,but too weak was the question striving for the heart of his son, thesilent windborne being.The man settled for a time, but with each word distant, each smilevoiceless – as if throughout the days he thought only of his nextflight, the one that just might finally chase down the sky’s elusive,far flying eyebrow.. . .His parents were fine. Older, but with more of the same in their chests and losing nothing but years.The walls of his room remembered him. Posters stared at hisyoung wrinkles.Old and known silence tamed the inner echoes, and his head fellto the aged pillow. In the last awake effort, his arm stretched under it.Something nearly scraped his finger. Nails grabbed the sharpness,pulled and brought it to the eye.It was a feather, dancing at his breath.
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