It’s May in Mississippi.
It’s supposed to be sweltering and offensive. Sticky and thick.
Instead it’s crisp and brisk, and it feels sideways outside. Cities and homes close to our hearts are in danger of floodwaters, but here it’s like we’re stuck in some weird Novemberish limbo. Socks, jackets. Soup.
It’s not that I have some weird longing for floods or devastation. That’s not it at all.
It’s just that the temperature makes the whole setting feel wrong, twisted, and kind of forgotten, if that makes sense.
And I’ve had a weird few days. There are many things that will never be the same.
So in a way, although the weather is odd and crooked, I suppose it’s extremely apt.