When the Wind Chimes

They first met when the wind chimes danced. It was a silent day, devoid of the typical buzzing of engines, squeals of children, and barking of dogs. The neighborhood park laid still, aside from the occasional tap of old newspapers flopping by, and the streets stood quiet, no cars hurried through. Overhead, blue oceans loomed ominously, leaving a scent of impending rain in the air. He had pulled his sliding door open and stepped out into this quiet world, intent on checking up on his plants. They were watered heavily earlier this week (the news was wrong about the forecast yet again), so they wouldn't be able to handle the incoming storm. He closed the patio door gently, and it shut in rhythm with the twinkling of the wind chime that hung on the overhead ceiling. He loved that wind chime—it was his mother's favorite before she passed—and sometimes when he went out to his patio garden, he would brush it with his fingers to create a sound. Today he didn't have to though, the winds already claimed that job.

Promptly, he left the covered part of his family's patio and began picking up the potted plants, carrying them over to shelter. The small ones were the first to go under the roof—heavy rain always flooded the pots over—and the larger ones came after. He was in the middle of moving the red peppers when he felt a tap on his arm. Then, another. Pit, pit, pat. The skies roared and the rain started pounding down. He grimaced and walked carefully back under the roofed patio area, placing the intricately carved pot down. He should have listened to his father when the older man suggested buying a plastic container with holes at the bottom. Then the water could easily leave and he wouldn't have to constantly worry about drowning red peppers. But then again, what did his father know? The older man was an engineer, not a botanist.

Brushing his dark, dripping bangs off of his eyebrows, he continued to run into the rain and walk his potted plants back. He did this twenty-four times—one time for each hole-less pot. Once the plants were all safe, he decided to sit and listen to the weather for a bit. If he went back now, he would hear an earful from his father about buying better pots and how rain baths led to pneumonia. He let out a soft sigh and let his rhythm match the steps of the drops colliding with the patio ground. The hushed wind whispered to him secrets that ran through the leaves of the trees, and his wind chime laughed in delight. Now that he was actively listening, he noticed a second twinkling sound, a joyful melody of metals tapping against each other in a rhythm different than his own patio ceiling's instrument. He peered curiously towards the neighbor's house, where a different wind chime hung. Unlike his, which sang songs of glass with one tongue, the neighbor's wind chime donned groups of metal singers, supporting and pushing one another to create a group lullaby.

His gaze wandered over to meet another's. A girl sat cross-legged on a table, watching him with eyes that twinkled like the wind chimes. She seemed more or less around his age, high school most likely, but unlike him, her hair was neat and dry. She gave him a smile of amusement and spoke over the rain, her voice strong enough to be barely audible, "Do you do this every time?"

In response, he stared at her in confusion. She gestured at his pots and his face heated up. "I should have gotten better pots," he explained, trying to keep his voice low enough for his father not to hear but loud enough for her to understand him, "The current ones look great, but they aren't as practical." She nodded, and turned her attention back to the trees that swayed in their backyards.

"What about you?" He blurted, not wanting to end a conversation off on an embarrassing note. She turned back to him and raised an eyebrow as if asking, 'Do I look like I'm running around, carrying pots?' "Why are you outside? It's such a gloomy day."

She laughed as if it were obvious, "I like listening to the rain." She smiled, placing her weight on her palms behind her back, "And the wind chimes." He let himself soak in more of the outside environment—the delicate dance of the chimes, the constant beat of droplets on the earth, the hushing of voices through the trees—and everything felt right.