Presented at the 2019 Luminaire Fine Arts Showcase at the University of Florida.

He turns to me, grinning.

“What is your favorite weather?”

“My favorite weather?” I reply skeptically. “Not favorite season, or month of the year?”

“No, weather. Y’know, wind, rain, or shine? Your favorite type of weather.” He glances up at the sky as he says it, where the sun beats down impassively, uninhibited by clouds.

“Ummmm… I don’t know.” I answer, pulling my sweater tighter around my shoulders. Despite the bright sun, the mid-October weather is chilly. A fallen leaf rushes past, skittering on the sidewalk pavement before it crackles off into the distance.

“Oh come on. Everyone has a favorite kind of weather. Just think about it.”

“Alright,” I consent, my mind wandering, pondering the obsolete question of my favorite weather.

He reaches toward the sun with both hands, casting a black mask across his eyes. “My favorite weather is sunny. It’s bright, and it’s warm, most of the time at least.”

I curl my toes in their boots, knowing I’m close to an answer.

“It’s like… a big smile, you know? Like when you see someone and they make eye-contact with you, and then a huge grin spreads across their face. You know they’re happy to see you.” He finishes.

“Mhm,” I hum noncommittally. Smiling suns are furthest from my mind.

“Sooooo, favorite weather?” The question is persisted with a kick at the damp leaves under our feet. The swirl of soggy yellows, browns, and russets look up at me when I finally respond.

“You know that time, right before it rains?”

I can tell he wasn’t anticipating this response. He blinks, then gives a small nod. “I think?”

“The air is still a little warm, but now there’s a breeze. It stirs the trees and makes the temperature feel pleasant. The sky is grey, but it’s a pale grey. It isn’t an ominous black or that stormy grey. It makes it calming instead of disheartening, especially since the clouds don’t completely obscure the sun. There are still some places its light pokes through. The calm before the storm, I suppose. Rain is coming, but maybe not for a while. That’s my favorite weather.” I conclude with a brush of my hand on my jeans.

Above me, the final leaves who still cling to the spindly branches flutter softly in the wind. Clouds have begun to drift over the sun. Maybe, just maybe, rain will come.