Waiting for the Breeze
馬蒂·阿通 / Marti Attoun
“No air conditioning？ How can you sleep？” a friend asks， horrified. I’ve just revealed that my family has decided to shut the air conditioner off and trim our electric bill.
“Nobody opens a window， day or night，” warns another friend， whose windows have been painted shut for a decade. “This is the 90s. It’s not safe.”
On this first night of our cost-cutting adventure， it’s only 85 degrees. We’re not going to suffer， but the three kids grumble anyway. They’ve grown up in 72-degree comfort， insulated from the world outside.
“How do you open these windows？” my husband asks. Jiggling the metal tabs， he finally releases one. A potpourri of bug bodies decorates the sills. As we spring the windows one by one， the night noises howl outside—and in.
“It’s too hot to sleep，” my 13-year-old daughter moans.
“I’m about to die from this heat，” her brother hollers down the hall.
“Just try it tonight，” I tell them.
In truth I’m too tired to argue for long. I’m exhausted after attending Grandma’s estate auction. I toted home her oval tin bathtub and the chair I once stood on like a big shot behind the counter of her store.
My face is sweaty， but I lie quietly listening to the cricket choirs outside that remind me of childhood. The neighbor’s dog howls. Probably a trespassing squirrel. It’s been years since I’ve taken the time to really listen to the night.
I think about Grandma， who lived to 92 and still supervised Mom’s gardening until just a few weeks before she died. And then， I’m back there at her house in the summer heat of my childhood. I move my pillow to the foot of Grandma’s bed and angle my face toward the open window. I flip the pillow， hunting for the cooler side.
Grandma sees me thrashing. “If you’ll just watch for the breeze，” she says， “you’ll cool off and fall asleep.”