The weather has been temperamental.
Outside my open window, I felt the breeze of an oncoming downpour, which has been a ritual now for several days. The clock marks 1.47 am, a peculiar time to be awake but when the world quietly rests, I like to have my eyes wide open. Sometimes it gets lonely, and the only accompaniment I have are low rumbles of household machinery, and songs of the crickets. If I peer through the cracks of my uplifted panes, I can see other tiny windows with the lights off, and the comfortable silence only invites a peaceful rest.
The wind was heady and thick that night from the humidity. There has never been a day when the sun hasn’t shone, and the air doesn’t suffocate inhabitants under the torrid zone. Every night at exactly half-past joint, no matter the weather, the air always seemed cooler and more bearable – tonight especially.
I’ve always wished I could live in constant 20 degrees with air so crisp your nose tingles every time you inhale. But London 2016 wasn’t very kind, even during the spring; sunshine wasn’t present, and the breeze cut through my gloves easily. Maybe it’s a little too far-fetched. Maybe I loved my weather too much to make that leap.
Sometimes when my neighbour switches on the lights, I see a tiny old lady with white hair hobbling to the fridge easily twice her size reaching for some cold water. The dreary activities of one when observed by another welcomes imagination – and I find myself constructing a whole life for this woman. Perhaps she lives alone because her husband passed away. Perhaps he died from tending to their garden one day. Their Iron Cross begonias always did thrive, and bloomed beautifully – even despite his absence. Her habits remind me of To’ Mi, my late grandmother.
She used to say that weather determines her mood, because it determines the health of her orchids. Orchids are notorious for being as temperamental as the slightest touch from the wrong hands can potentially wilt them. Some days they flaunt their colours, other days they dull and shy away from onlookers but they still live knowing someone is there to care for them.
Yes, perhaps I’ve grown fond of the weather over the years. 2 a.m reveries wouldn’t be as wistful under harsh winters and outside, people wouldn’t be so kind to offer a hand when they can’t even feel theirs.
At least, to me. Because there is no other place I can rest, I can feel familiarity, than outside my open window.