The day falls at the end of May or early June, at the start of every summer, when the warm air collides with the cool.
On this day, the wind blows ferociously, tufting the clouds and bending the trees until they bow. It is a long, constant wind, with a beginning somewhere in the countries beyond, bringing leavened scents of flowers that do not exist here.
It is a festival day when you set fires in the lull of the wind, and then watch as it starts again, sweeping the fire sideways. Everything that is thrown into the fire leaves too, ash swept far, far away from here. We do not know where the wind ends.
It is a day of clairvoyance and clarity, when the sky is empty and you can see as far as the mountains in the distance, and the gleam of towns at their foothills.
It is a day to take your old memories, the ones that are useless and stifle you, and release them to the wind – so that you can finally, finally forget.