Waiting for Breeze
“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 releases one. Lots of dead insects lie on the windowsill. As we spring the windows one by one, the night noises howl outside—and in.
“It’s too hot to sleep,” my 13-year-old daughter moans. “I’m about to die from this heat,” her brother yells down the corridor. “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 choirs 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 upkeep 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 angle my face toward the open window. I flip the pillow, hunting for the cooler side.
Grandma sees me tossing and turning. “If you’ll just watch for the breeze,” she says, “you’ll cool off and fall asleep.” She raises the Venetian blinds. I stare at the filmy white curtain, willing it to flutter.
Lying still, waiting, I suddenly notice the life outside the window. The bug chorus shouts. Neighbors, sitting on their verandas until late, speak in flowing drawl that soothes me.
“Keep watching for the breeze,” Grandma says softly, and I “uh-huh” in reply. Bugs ping the screen. Three blocks away a train rumbles by.
I catch the scent of fresh grass clippings. Then I hear something I can’t decode — 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 blurts, tearing me from memories of old. “I think it was an owl family.”
“Probably,” I tell him. “Just keep listening… ”
Without the droning 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 in.