Blow

When I lived in the desert, dust devils frequently blew in. I loved these miniature cyclones and always chased after them. I was eleven when I caught my first one. It was recess, and I ran through the school doors and into a massive dust devil. Surrounded by the spirit of air and breath, I screamed and whirled in exultation. I was one with this column of air, and I shrieked with the shrill earsplitting treble gifted to prepubescents.

My teacher ran outside, terror writ large across his face. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to detention while saying something or another about crying wolf.

I didn't care.

I was still dizzy and flushed with joy.