On hot nights my mother put a fan in the hall outside our bedrooms. It felt like it would never reach my door, turning so slowly on its big black base (and why couldn’t each of us have had our own fan? Were they so expensive then?). I’d lie in bed waiting for it to shudder on one side, pausing for what seemed like forever at my brother’s room; wait again for it to turn back around, past my parents’ room; and then, finally, I’d struggle to feel the faint breeze that never quite reached my bed.
And yet when I moved to Philadelphia people thought I was crazy because I felt sad when heat waves ended.
I’m over that. But I still love weather: thunderstorms and hail and Canadian highs and rainy days and hurricanes and blizzards. Weather punctuates our lives, like little exclamation marks.