[CONTENTID1] 01 [/CONTENTID1] [CONTENTID2] Follow The Wind [/CONTENTID2] [CONTENTID3]

My parents separated when I was five. For some reason, whenever I tell people this, they always apologize, as if there was something so terribly wrong with my life. There wasn’t. I grew up with double the Christmas gifts, double the New Year’s money, and double the birthday presents. It was like my parents always tried to one-up each other to win me over, always trying their best to be my favorite, and honestly, I was okay with that.

But if there was one thing I could complain about, it was having to grow up in two different places. After their divorce, my parents went their separate ways; my mom went to live with her side of the family in Westport, Connecticut, and my dad went to San Diego, California. I lived with my mom, so I spent most of the year in Connecticut, and then my summers in California. This, of course, also meant that I could never hang out with my friends when school was over.

I got a full scholarship to Boston University, so after graduating high school, I left both of those places behind for as long as I could. I felt so free, and free I was—that is, until summer came around. Then it was back to the same rodeo, except with a twist: I’d spend the first half with one side of the family, and the other half with the other.

Midsummer was both the best and worst time of the year. It was the best because I could finally leave boring Westport for a-little-more-exciting San Diego. But it was also the worst because I had to leave Westport for scorching hot San Diego.

Aside from that, it also happened to be the only days of the year where anything actually happened in Westport. The Midsummer Festival, as the locals called it, was a three-day celebration that was passed down for centuries, right in the heart of Winslow Park. There were outdoor games, cookouts, celebrations, carnivals, and even live plays. It wasn’t until I went to college that I got to experience it, since I was always sent to San Diego the moment I finished school, and it would turn out that the festival itself got repetitive really quickly, much like everything else in my life.

But the day I met her also happened to be the first day of the Midsummer Festival. And those moments never repeated themselves, no matter how much I wanted them to.

I sat alone on a bench under the cool shade of a large oak tree. There were families gathered by the picnic tables, and the smell of barbequed chicken filled the air as if we were inside of a windowless room. The summer breeze, carrying the scent of smoke, earth, and grass, brushed on my skin like a delicate blanket. There was nothing more summer than that.

Maybe I do miss this feeling from time to time, I thought, as I fiddled with a paper pinwheel that I’d gotten from one of the stands.

It was a handmade piece, carefully crafted by a group of retired elderly ladies who called themselves The Young Souls—whether or not that name was fitting was a different conversation. Every year, they would pass them out to everyone who attended the Festival for free, and I never understood how they ever managed to make hundreds of these little things by hand.

“Pinwheels help you find the wind,” they’d say. “And the wind helps you find your place in the world. Make like a leaf and follow the wind, for you will end up exactly where you were meant to be.”

That was great and all, but the pinwheel they gave me wasn’t even working. Maybe the wind wanted nothing to do with me this year. Maybe it’s grown so tired of chasing me around the country.

Amidst the children running around playing, I noticed a little boy, who couldn’t have been no older than 5 of 6, eyeing my pinwheel, although he must have been too shy to come over. His hair was long and straight, and covered his eyebrows just enough to not touch his eyes. 

“Where’s your pinwheel?” I asked.

“I don’t have one,” he said quietly, his hands stuffed in his oversized shorts.

“How come?”

He shrugged disappointedly and slowly walked towards me. “Mommy said they ran out.”

“I would give you mine, but it’s broken,” I said, holding it in front of him. “Look, it doesn’t spin, even if I push it.”

I flicked the paper wings, but it barely budged. Something must have been wrong with the way the hole was punctured.

“How come?” he asked, looking up at me.

“I don’t know. That’s how they gave it to me. Maybe it’s just defective.”

“Dafactive?”

I smiled. “Defective. It means that it’s not normal, it’s broken.”

“How come?” he asked.

“Sometimes things just don’t come out the way we want them to.” I twirled it around with my fingers. “Do you still want it?”

He nodded excitedly, and I handed it to him.

“What are you going to do with a broken pinwheel?” I asked, watching him trying to get it to spin.

“I’m going to try to make it not dafactive anymore,” he said.

I watched as he continued trying to fix it, but to no avail. I didn’t know if it was frustration that was creeping onto his face or disappointment, but I felt sorry that I couldn’t do anything to help. I would have went back to the ladies to get another one for him, but if they really ran out, there wasn't much I could do.

“Here, you can have mine,” a soft voice suddenly said from behind me.

A girl came over and handed him a green pinwheel, and as the wind blew, it gently spinned in his hand.

“Really?” he asked, a wide smile forming on his face.

“Of course,” she said, lowering her body to talk to him.

“It spins.” He smiled as brightly as the sun above us.

“Maybe this one was meant for you all along.”

“But it’s yours.”

“It was. Now it’s yours.” She