He grew up in a house filled with glass chimes. The clinking of crystals were always in one with his breath, and the high pitched noise that the glass would make against the wind—was the sound of silence in his home. 

In the passing of his fathers, they took him away to a place far away from what was familiar to him. He went to live with the people who were marred by the hangings of the slaves— Away from his island that blew gusts of passion into his life; away from it all. He missed the landscapes, he missed the water washing up on shore, he missed the green grass that grew to accompany the wind. He missed the ornamental fruit hanging from trees, the towels up to try, the hammock upon his porch, and the sun that shot rays of light from where it hung in the sky. 

Home was being missed in his sight, but for those he had his imagination to re-create.  What he missed most he could not find again.

He missed the crystal wind chimes, the pinching noise of glass touching upon glass. There were no stores to buy them, and no where to hang glass bottles from—for the people he lived with, did not allow anything to be dangling from a greater height than their feet, for the hanging brought them sad memories of their race. He would sit outside painting a landscape with his mind and hitting glass cups upon other broken glass. The noise would fill him with memories as if scents from another lifetime. He stayed up all night creating what the wind took over back in his home. 

It satisfied him to hear that pinch, it made his heart beat to its natural beat once more; But, his arms grew tired. His eyes half asleep. And he notices that to create what the wind had spoken—was nearly impossible. He perhaps managed to speak the same vocabulary, but the pronunciation was still far removed. 

One morning he woke up and thought he’d found a solution. He ran into town and grabbed the scavenging children of Nohang bay and paid them in chewing gum to act as the wind. He lined bottles of empty beers, crystals from the neighboring homes, and even rocks from his mineral collection; they were lined upon the second floor of the home he found himself living in. He asked one by one the children to push the glass from the edge with an interval of .3 seconds apart. The falling pieces would clink and clack on the way down from above but the crash below disturbed the peace of silence he sought. 

He scurried the children away. And sat cross legged once again hitting his bottles upon one another. He sat in deep stare—perhaps even a deep despair. He watched the leaves of grass swaying in the wind and he longed for the wind to touch his crystals to give him back a piece of his heart and his home. 

He saw the flowers and the branches touched by the wind— he cried and lost hope until his body picked himself up and walked towards the thick stalks of flowers blowing in the wind. Unconsciously he popped the flower’s heads off with a flick of the wrist and stuck the bottles upside down onto the headless, milking, stems. He placed the bottle side by side and placed them in rows. 

Clink, clank, clink, clank, pinch, clak. 

The wind picked up and the bottles swayed as if hanging more fixedly and yet equally at ease in the wind. He smiled beyond recognition, he laughed but the chimes ate over his happiness. The world always had its ways to recreate itself, no matter how much we stripped and restricted from our own lives. Strong memories of joy had curious manners in transforming present moments into a livable past. 

Man and nature together, brought life into the world.