It’s been brought to my attention that I talk a lot about the weather, which I’m assuming is partly because I’m Canadian, but mostly because I’ve loved clouds and snow and thunder for as long as I can remember loving anything. The smell of rain on its way when you’re nine and sitting on the porch, the way the summer-warmed cement steams when it first gets drenched, the way you feel invincible there with your plate of buttered saltines and Freshie as the sound of fat raindrops hit the roof above you, cars sploshing through puddles, the man across the road holding a newspaper above his head as he runs from his car to the front door and you with your Archie and Veronica and not a single place to go.

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image courtesy of (apparently) paint by numbers and unknown artist.

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