Eyebrow of the Wind

The toddler was fascinated by the wind. His nostrils tickled, damp eyes brought to awareness.
A feather came from above, bewildering thread of nameless marvel, tumbled just to touch his finger before mounting the world again.

Too elfin was the arm striving for the magical windborne being, but the boy remembered. Each wind unsettled, each inexplicable sight throughout the youth called upon the finger’s memory of sky’s elusive eyebrow.

. . .

The man was fascinated by the distances of the world. His mind was tickled by them, heartbeat brought to awareness.

Once again he came from above, descended in a jet just to spend Christmas at the oldest of his homes before mounting the world again. The father welcomed him as usual: “Found what you're looking for?”, but too weak was the question striving for the heart of his son, the silent windborne being.

The man settled for a time, but with each word distant, each smile voiceless – as if throughout the days he thought only of his next flight, 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 his young wrinkles.
Old and known silence tamed the inner echoes, and his head fell to 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.