The Weather Report – February 16, 2015
Boone, North Carolina, United States
High: 20℉
Low: 13℉
Sunrise: 7:14 a.m.
Sunset: 6:09 p.m.
Humidity: 61%
Dewpoint: -4°
Moon Phase: Waning Gibbous
You should wear: You don’t need to wear anything. You are not perfect but you are very close.
You’re going to feel: Like sitting on the kitchen floor and drinking a stranger’s beer. Like materializing images without magic. Like holding hands after only three minutes. And then you will.
Considerable cloudiness and chance of snow 100%. Winter storm warning until noon tomorrow. Winds SE at 15 to 20 mph.
☁
I think of you. Sometimes I think of you as a bird. Sometimes you are a color. Sometimes you are different shapes of wood. Sometimes you are the dull hum of the North Carolina creeks constantly sounding in the ears of everyone who is awake. Sometimes you are the last song stuck in my head. Sometimes you are white envelopes. Sometimes you are yellow ones.
Last night you were the first hiccup I hiccuped before a long, annoying succession of hiccups. Then you were a leaf floating up instead of falling down. Then you were many different types of hot sauces. Then you were the over-extension of my arm when I reached for something I ultimately could not reach. Then you were the tin in which I hold my cigarettes. Then you were smoke in my lungs. Then you were dizzy in my head. Then you were back to being a person. Then you were softly asleep.
When you cry, you cry with your eyes open. You say this helps the other people in the room to feel weightless and less alone. Your eyes are rusted over in earnest, like a baby animal that hasn’t learned to blink, like a tired Saturn, like the heaviest weight lifted off the palest skin. You say the disquiet fades more easily this way, for everyone, for good. I think yes, that makes sense, and now I cry this way too.
Walk lightly in the direction of the highest building in your town. If it is residential, go inside. Find a warm and quiet spot. Lie down for now, lie down for later. Eventually be asked to leave immediately. I don’t know what you do next, but I trust you regardless.
Sarah Jean Alexander wrote a book called Wildlives. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.
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