The sky is a colour I can’t quite name, somewhere between grey and white and blue. The clouds are folding into themselves, like caricature chubby baby cheeks drawn up, and in, with laughter. The trees are vibrant and full, leaning slightly -- protectively – overtop the row of houses that stretch all the way down to the lake, although the lake is probably a solid walking mile from here. From the top of the large oak tree across the street, falling in a soft swoop onto the branches next store, a piece of what looks like kite string straddles the road.
Downstairs, Mary (cousin to Paul Bunyan) is baking a peach pie. The evening meal is over – you can always tell because the cat bells rattle vigorously, five little fur heads occupying themselves with licking and preening, the last vestiges of fish sticks and carrots and boiled potatoes wiped clean from our dinner plates.
I spent the day reading a page-turning novel, computer turned off – what freedom there is in this action, I had forgotten – and all afternoon, not the least bit interested in talking with anyone at all, unencumbered by the menace of the world, I read on.
As I write this the sky has changed colour, from grey-white-blue to grey-pink, signifying what I do not know, despite the red sky at night promise of a sunny tomorrow. Judging by the thickness of cloud – which is now one great blanket of mass – I don’t trust that anything is coming except maybe the end of the world.
*
I was wrong, Chicken Little. The sky did not fall and the world did not end. It is a glorious day – red sky at night – which is perfect for errand-running.
I have not had a working watch in well over a month and therefore need batteries. I have an envelope to weigh before mailing, too – a friend with cancer and a book that might help her – and Mary and I have to open a new safety deposit box, closer to home than the bank in the far west end.
For the first time in a several days, it is not raining, although I seldom mind the rain and, generally, welcome it. As Owen Wilson describing Samuel Beckett (the latter sharing my Day of the Iconoclast birthday) says, 'He had an abiding sense of melancholy that sustained him through brief periods of joy,' I have been newly redefined as a melancholic optimist (or was it optimistic melancholic?), which seems about right. Some things are inherent, of course, others thrust upon us.
Anyway, this isn’t much of a weather report, I know. If you want that you should turn to Environment Canada (although I am not always sure how reliable the forecasts over there are, either).
If I were to guess, I would say that for the next few days you can expect at least some sun mixed with occasional cloud with a threat or perhaps even a down-pouring of rain (depending on where you live) with intermittent bouts of wind, darkness at night, and some level of brightness during the daytime.
