Weather

a short story

I’m not sure why I get so down sometimes. Maybe it’s the weather.

I called up a friend; I asked her what my problem was. She said (and I quote) ‘consciousness is hard enough without analyzing your every mood, just try to focus on gratitude and you’ll feel better’.

I guess I’m grateful for a few things. Health, for one; my kids are great. The house is still standing. I made a list of all the things, called my friend back and told her being grateful just made me feel grateful — not happy. She said I thought too much and hung up.

I called up my mother who told me to go out and treat myself to a day of my own, so I got a babysitter, I called off work. I put on clean clothes.

I went downtown and got a haircut. I went to a cafe and ate some cake. I drank hot coffee with cream and sugar. I had a sandwich for lunch.

I went home. I felt the same, but my hair looked better, and I wasn’t hungry anymore. I called my mother and told her about my sandwich. My mother told me I should have tried this other sandwich. We didn’t talk long.

I called my sister and asked what she thought. She said what I needed was perspective. Maybe if my life was harder, I’d appreciate the good things more; my life was easy, so nothing seemed special, she said.

I tried to remember the last time I’d suffered.

I remembered it.

I tried to remember if my suffering had generated subsequent happiness. I didn’t think it had; I think it generated gratitude I was no longer suffering, which isn’t true happiness.

I went for a walk with my other sister. I asked her if she was happy. She said of course not, but sometimes maybe sort of — when she was engaged and fulfilled by her art, and when she was traveling. She told me she’d given up worrying about first world problems. She focused on the here and now and what she had to do for her life. She said if she thought too much about what really was going on out there, she’d lose her mind. I asked her what she meant by ‘out there’. She said she didn’t get the question. I said, you know, ‘out there’. I asked if she meant we were all separate from the rest of the world, in our own bubble; constant observers, but not connected. Tourists of life, not livers of life.

She said no, of course not.

I said there’s war, famine, pestilence, everywhere, always. But here we are taking a walk. It isn’t fair we just get to take a walk and think about why we’re not happy when other people in other places are thinking about how to survive until tomorrow.

My sister said since we had time to think about why we weren’t happy, maybe that should make us happy.

I asked if it made her happy.

She said it didn’t make her happy, exactly — just aware, and grateful, you know? Because her art and the world and everything shone and pulsed more with that connection to the pain of consciousness, and the fragility, the ephemerality of life. It made every moment precious.

I asked her if ‘ephemerality’ was a real word. My sister laughed. I laughed too.

I went home, made dinner, washed dishes, got my kids ready for bed, did laundry. I ate dinner with my husband. I told him everything. He said happiness was a human construct anyway, other animals were content because they weren’t aware of death, but we had to face it. So, we chase this thing called happiness, which is ephemeral and can’t be quantified. I laughed because he used the word ephemeral. I asked him if ‘ephemerality’ was a real word. He said yes.

He went to bed. I stayed up to watch TV, but nothing was good. I had seen every story there was to see. I decided to go to bed.

I dreamed all night; the next day I tried to remember the dreams, but I couldn’t.

Now I feel better.

I wondered why I feel better sometimes.

Maybe it’s the weather.