Second, there is indeed weather. Before dawn, the air took on the scent of fog, though the fog was barely visible— no more than a hazing of the lights of houses across the alley, and the vague sense that the ghost of a ghost's shroud was drifting among the trees. The trees themselves were silhouetted by a sky that the westering moon brightened. The air was very cold. I didn't stay awake to watch the clouds thicken, or to see them turn mauve with dawn, though I might have dreamed about the scene that passed as I slept.
I woke to a gray afternoon, which turned blustery as evening arrived. The wind brought the first raindrops, and they have fallen intermittently since. The wind has died but left occasional chilly breezes to remember it by. The roof has two new leaks. Ah, well. Winter is nearly half gone, and I suspect a hot and fire-prone summer will soon enough make me regret February's passing. I can live with the leaks, and the flowers soon to bloom will live with the rain. It's an acceptable compromise.
Now midnight nears and I'm thinking it will be Monday and I'll have so little to show for the weekend. Monday is so judgemental.
by David Berman
I remember Kitty saying we shared a deep longing for
the consolation prize, laughing as we rinsed the stagecoach.
I remember the night we camped out
and I heard her whisper,
"think of me as a place" from her sleeping bag
with the centaur print.
I remember being in her father's basement workshop
when we picked up an unknown man sobbing
over the shortwave radio
and the night we got so high we convinced ourslves
that the road was a hologram projected by the headlight beams.
I remember how she would always get everyone to vote
on what we should do next and the time she said
"all water is classic water" and shyly turned her face away.
At volleyball games her parents sat in the bleachers
like ambassadors from Indiana in all their midwestern schmaltz.
She was destroyed when they were busted for operating
a private judicial system within US borders.
Sometimes I'm awakened in the middle of the night
by the clatter of a room service cart and I think back on Kitty.
Those summer evenings by the government lake,
talking about the paradox of multiple Santas
and how it felt to have your heart broken.
I still get a hollow feeling on Labor Day when the summer ends
and I remember how I would always refer to her boyfriends
as what's-his-face, which was wrong of me and I'd like
to apologize to all those guys right now, wherever they are:
No one deserves to be called what's-his-face.