The Windmill

I saw an old windmill today, it made feel small.

I saw a windmill today. It wasn’t a new windmill, no, it was an old windmill. I couldn’t tell you how old it was. Maybe the internet could do that for you. But it was old. I could tell this, not just from the tourist information sign, but from it’s imperfect construction. You see, everything constructed recently is all perfect. All angles or sleek curves. Not this windmill, this wasn’t new. It was old. It’s circular base wasn’t a perfect circle, and if you were to run your hand along its curved wall you wouldn’t find it to be smooth, but bumpy and uneven. On top of its circular base it had a tall wooden structure painted darkly, though not black. The wooden planks that it was constructed from weren’t identical and rectangular, they had curves and splinters. It had four spectacular arms. They weren’t aerodynamic, but made of long interconnecting planks of wood. The wood on it’s arms wasn’t painted darkly like the main body of the structure, it was left unpainted, exposing knots and cracks. The arms were huge. It was huge. Impressive, as it stood proud against the cold and dreary February sky.

The wind gave me a chill, and I jostled my limbs in an attempt to keep myself warm. The windmill stood proud and unconcerned. ‘Click’ went Pippa’s camera. She paused to examine her photo. She would later share it on the internet. She wasn’t the first to do so, and she wouldn’t be the last. The windmill would be immortalized long after it’s structure was gone. Something about that made me feel small. I looked over to Pippa again. She was concentrating hard, half in a squat, one eye squinting, hair whipping in the wind, determined. ‘Click’. I smiled, thought of home and sharing a tea with her. I may be small to the windmill, but I am big to her. That’s enough for me.