I have this theory that the weather mirrors my mood. Sometimes, like this weekend, I take it as a sign the universe—or at the very least, Mother Earth—empathizes with the way my life is going at the moment. I know it sounds self-centered. But just like chick flicks and pints of ice cream, it’s comforting all the same.
On Thursday, the first named tropical depression of the season rolled through, gathering steam and acquiring an upgrade from TD to Hurricane Arthur. It swept through speedily, carrying with it gusts strong enough to swing around the grill and decimate the deck-bound bougainvillea. There were heavy raindrops and thunder and all the usual things you except with a decent storm, but the lasting impression here in Charleston was of a city cloaked in clouds.
Let me backtrack a bit more. On Wednesday, after a jaunt on the beach and a belated dinner of margaritas and Mexican food, my boyfriend severed our six-month relationship. I saw it coming—he’d been distant for weeks, like a light someone had flicked off and forgotten about.
But I couldn’t forget, couldn’t get mad, couldn’t get over it, so I sulked. It seemed fitting when fog settled over the Low Country, obscuring my view of his island as if mere blindness could push him from my mind. It couldn’t.
There were bright spots, though. Sun smiled on my lunch with a cousin. The night sky cleared for fireworks. Yes, there were bright spots. Today, it’s sunny, warm but not too warm, the kind of day that calls you out into its embrace and urges you to linger there while the breeze caresses your skin and the heat melts your heart until you’re an oozy puddle of being, not feeling.
It’s my kind of day. And I like to think it happened on purpose.