Waiting for the Breeze/祈盼清风





“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 to save money.



　　“Nobody opens a window, day or night,” warns another friend, whose windows have been painted shut for a decade. “It's just not safe.”



　　On this first night of our cost-cutting adventure, it's only 30 degrees. We're not going to suffer, but the three kids grumble1 anyway. They've grown up in 22-degree comfort, protected from the heat outside.



　　“How do you open these windows?” my husband asks. Shaking the window handle, he finally releases2 one. Lots of dead insects3 lie on the windowsill4. As we spring5 the windows one by one, the night noises howl6 outside—and in.



　　“It's too hot to sleep,” my 13-year-old daughter moans7. “I'm about to die from this heat,” her brother yells down the corridor8. “Just try it tonight,” I tell them. In truth I'm too tired to argue for long. My face is sweaty, but I lie quietly listening to the cricket choirs9 outside that remind me of childhood. The neighbor's dog howls. No doubt a 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 managed the upkeep10 of my Mom's garden 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 angle11 my face toward the open window. I flip12 the pillow, hunting for the cooler side.



Grandma sees me tossing13 and turning. “If you'll just watch for the breeze,” she says, “you'll cool off and fall asleep.” She raises the Venetian blinds14. I stare at the filmy white curtain, willing it to flutter15.



　　Lying still, waiting, I suddenly notice the life outside the window. The bug chorus16 shouts. Neighbors, sitting on their verandas17 until late, speak in flowing drawl18 that soothes19 me.



　　“Keep watching for the breeze,” Grandma says softly, and I “uh-huh” in reply. Bugs ping20 the screen. Three blocks away a train rumbles21 by.



　　I catch the scent22 of fresh grass clippings23. Then I hear something I can't decode24 — perhaps a tree branch scratching the shop roof next door.



　　Sleepy-eyed now, I look at the curtain. It moves...



　　“Mom, did you hear that?” my seven-year-old blurts25, tearing me from memories of old. “I think it was an owl26 family.”



　　“Probably,” I tell him. “Just keep listening... ”



Without the droning27 air conditioner, the house sounds are different, more peaceful, and with the windows open outside noises seem close enough to touch. I hope I'm awake tonight when the first breeze sneaks in28.







　　“不开空调？你睡得着吗？”听说我家为了省电要把家里的空调关掉时，我的朋友一脸惊愕。



　　“现在谁敢开窗？”另一个朋友警告说，“不管是白天还是晚上都不安全！”她家的窗户刷过漆后，已经尘封了十年。



　　在开始省电的第一天晚上，气温不过30度。我们不觉得难受，3个孩子却抱怨连天。他们是在22度的温室里被呵护长大的，与外界隔绝。



　　“这些窗户该怎么开呀？”丈夫摇晃着金属插销，终于打开了一扇。各种各样的昆虫尸体装点着窗台。随着窗户被一扇一扇地打开，萦绕在外的夜声——涌了进来。



　　13岁的女儿不停地嘀咕：“太热了！怎么睡啊！” "我快被热死了！"她弟弟的牢骚也从客厅的另一头传了过来。 “今晚就试试好吗？” 我对他们说。我实在太累了，不想和他们费口舌。脸上汗涔涔的，但我还是静静地躺着，听着窗外蟋蟀的合唱，勾起了我童年的记忆。邻居的狗突然狂叫起来，可能是只松鼠惊动了它。我已经好多年没有工夫静下心来倾听夜的倾诉了。



　　我想起了外婆。她活了92岁，直到去世的前几周，还在帮妈妈照料花园。此时，我好像又回到了外婆的小屋，回到小时候的夏季热浪中。我把枕头挪到外婆的床尾，脸冲着开着的窗户，还是热。于是我不停地翻动枕头，想找凉快的一面。



　　外婆看我翻来覆去地睡不着，就说：“等着起风吧，一会儿就凉快下来，睡着了。”她把百叶窗卷了起来，我便盯着那薄薄的白窗帘，盼着它飘起来。



　　静静地躺着，等待着，突然，窗外的生机引起了我的注意。昆虫在轻唱，邻居们在阳台上，坐到深夜，他们模糊不清的说话声，开始催我入眠。



　　"等着风起来吧，”外婆轻声说，我嗯哼作答。虫子砰砰地撞在纱窗上。三个街区外，火车正隆隆驶过。



我闻到了新割青草的清香。还有一种说不清的声音——可能是树枝扫过邻家店铺的屋顶吧。



　　眼皮发沉了，我还是盯着窗帘。它飘起来了……



　　“妈妈，你听到了吗？”7岁的孩子突然嚷了起来，往昔的回忆倏然而去，“那是猫头鹰一家吧？”



　　“可能是，接着听……”



　　没有了空调的嗡嗡作响，房间里静得出奇，未经过滤的夜声似乎近得伸手可及。我希望，当第一缕清风悄然而至时，我仍醒着。

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