I hated the wind. Not the wind that softly lifts my hair and cools my face, but the kind that shoves in my ear. The kind of wind that feels like it is flapping against my eardrum, shuffling in and blocking out anything else. The kind that would eventually make me sick to my stomach and urge me to go inside. Oh, how I hated the wind.

The point where I no longer hated the wind is undefined in my memory. As I grew, I found myself outside less and less, and more and more often, I found myself hunched up over my computer, procrastinating every ounce of homework until my parents returned from work.

When I could finally step outside and enjoy the air not regulated by my thermostat, I could still hear the wind shuffling it’s shoes against the doormat. Yet, I happily invited it in rather than trying to shove it out the door as I had done in the past—which had been futile.

The wind is something I do not get to see often anymore—and distance makes the heart grow fonder.

Instead of resenting the isolation the wind pushes me into by silencing the world around me, I feel at peace in my solitary serenity. As opposed to getting ill due to the turbulence, I allow myself to flow with the slow ups and downs of the currents.

When I was younger, the frothy voice of the air was so common, so I was routinely irritated by its babbling in my ear. My innocence despised being bothered by the wistful whispers as the philosophical tone was too complex for my ears to comprehend.

But now, since I have matured, I can appreciate the legends the wind tells. I can understand them now, and I can be thankful for the enthusiasm of the wind. Without such stories, the outside world would be bland and two-dimensional.

The days without the wind are beautiful indeed, often with a bright, glowing sun and a temperature that I can comfortably frolic in. Despite this, I feel like I am living in a simulation. The weather is too perfect, until a slight breeze drags me back to reality.

More than ever, I can appreciate the breeze on the days where the green grass crisps up to a sickly yellow, and the only condensation in sight is that rolling down my forehead. The swift, cool, light touch of the wind brushing against my cheek offers the smallest bit of comfort in such extreme temperatures.

Although I did not appreciate it for years, I can now sit with the wind hoarsely talking in my ear, from faint breezes to loud blustering. I rarely get to see my friend, but in the moments I can see it, I savor every bit. Oh, how I love the wind.