How to Read the Wind

My mother did not die of old age, nor did any illness lay her low in bed. Her worries for us, the fugitives, broke her heart, and one day she decided to not breathe anymore.

Her last breath became wind, and it’s blowing wild on this November day, whistling and singing to my ears, sometimes as a lullaby, other times a lament.

And very often the wind says to me: ‘Why so late my son?’