There was a storm. A huge storm. A fast and mean and human storm. A storm that picked at windows like fingernails, a storm that pulled at awnings like a petulant child, a storm that whipped and beat my body as I stood out in it. There was a storm with rain that forced its way through the very paint on our walls, through the skin on my back, through the fog in my brain. Trees threw themselves across roads, buses refused to drive south, all our bodies tensed to bolt.
It ended and the fog in my body grew thicker.
There has been for days a surreal sun only ever seen after a storm; for days I am a meteorological anomoly, filled with fog through my bones like a dirty snowglobe. Sun beats down and cracks my shins open with blisters from the heat, releasing only hisses and vacation wishes. The fog stays, but now it is steam; the fog stays, now it is searing.
Everyone walks about through the sun congratulating each other for surviving the storm. For witnessing the wild colors that shouldn’t exist in nature, for lighting candles and sopping messes, forgetting that sighs of relief and moments of relaxation are only harbingers of the real storm, lurking.
My bones are waiting.