Weather Report for the Interior

Current conditions:

Overcast in the upper registers. A system of low expectations has stalled over the heart, producing intermittent rain in the form of memory that arrives without warning and leaves without apology.

The forecast is uncertain. Meteorologists disagree on whether the front will break by evening or remain entrenched, a permanent climate that the body learns to dress for, to plan around, to stop expecting will ever change.

Historical data suggests this pattern is seasonal, linked to anniversaries no calendar acknowledges: the day a particular voice stopped being audible, the week a certain door came off its hinges and was never repaired, the month the light in the kitchen began to flicker in a rhythm that sounded like code no one had the patience to decipher.

Extended forecast:

Periods of relative stability interrupted by sudden storms that form without warning in the late afternoon, when the light falls at a particular angle and objects cast shadows that seem to move independently of the objects themselves.

Temperature fluctuations between the skin and what lies beneath it. A difference of several degrees that no thermometer can accurately measure, a thermal gradient between the self that presents and the self that persists.

Precipitation:

Light mist in the morning, heavier in the evening. The mist is not water but something else that accumulates on surfaces, that requires periodic wiping, that returns as soon as the wiping stops.

Wind conditions:

Variable. Gusts up to the speed of a thought that arrives uninvited and departs without closure. Direction shifting according to the position of objects in the room, the angle of the chair, the presence or absence of a particular sound that used to mean someone was home.

Advisory:

Travel is not recommended in the interior regions during periods of darkness or reflection. If travel is necessary, proceed with caution. Carry provisions. Do not rely on maps drawn by previous selves. The terrain has changed since they passed through. What was once a road is now a river. What was once a landmark is now a question.

This has been the weather report for the interior. Conditions are subject to change without notice. The only constant is the reporting itself, the daily practice of observing and recording what cannot be changed but can at least be named.

Tomorrow: more of the same, with slight variations that only the long-term resident would notice. A different shade of gray. A different quality of silence. A different weight to the air that enters and the air that leaves, both carrying the same message, translated into different dialects by the same lungs that have been speaking this language longer than memory can reliably recall.