sun, sky, moon, rain

When I was seven or eight I did a school unit on meteorology, which culminated in an assignment to record the weather for a month: temperature, humidity, clouds, precipitation, barometric pressure, wind speeds. This type of methodical observation appealed to me. I liked bookending each day with an attempt to harness the mystery of nature. Morning and night for thirty days I would stand in various states of dress in the driveway, neck craned, and record my observations in a little notebook. In south Texas, it usually meant that the humidity was high and the clouds low. Then I would hurry inside and carefully transfer the data into a spreadsheet. If dawn had broken scarlet, I would add a prediction about the unruly weather that was sure to follow. If towering cumulonimbus clouds then appeared, I’d watch them morph with a jolt of satisfaction. For a long time after the assignment ended, I would identify the clouds to anyone who’d listen: cirrus, altocumulus, stratus. It was less about proving the breadth of my knowledge and more about unearthing a new kinship with the world. 

I still keep a ritual of tracking of the weather, though now I collect summaries rather than specifics, and geographically I cast a wider net than I did in third grade. In my weather app is a long list of all the places I love, or, more accurately, all the places in which the people I love live. I may not have the privilege of knowing the minutiae of their days, but at least I can ask if they’re prepared for the snow or, if they’re lucky, have packed sunblock in their bag. Sun, sky, moon, rain: sometimes it’s the only constant we have.

The other day I got a text from my sister in Michigan: “winter storm warning for Denver!” And the day after that, another from my mother-in-law in Texas: “how much snow did y’all get?” It occurs to me as I shovel icy crystals that my love is not in vain.