There was always a little wind at the top of your hill—the highest point in the county, you said, then walked with me to the bronze geo marker that proved it—and the wind always found something to play with. Down feathers from your golden pheasants, fluffed in drifts near a clump of flowering ginger; green bottle gourds dangling on the trellis above the deck, pendant, phallic, straight out of Marvell. I loved to sit and drink jasmine tea with you, watch the wind blow the steam off and cool us all down. There were no words to the stories we shared. We were the words, tousled by that sweet little wind, daydreaming stories together and again, as if we were the refrain from a song you loved, fading, not fading, like "The Wind Blows Wild."