How To Keep Your Little Weather Machine From Eating Your House

1. First Things First: Not a Magic Box.

Look. Whistles of that chrome cylinder in your hallway? It is not here to have an easier life. It's a mirror. A hungry one. My next-door friend Frank had it installed by him when Martha died, because he could always dial up "Sunny & 72°" and get his way.

On the night before his prize roses were hard frozen. On knocking at his door he merely glared past me, wiping the ice off his spectacles. I do not remember why I planted these, he said to himself. His roses still were beautiful. Just... empty. Like museum pieces. That is what you do when you tell the thing a lie.

It does not care about whether you are comfortable or not. It is concerned with the verity in your thoat. So quit acting like you are okay. The machine already understands that you are not.

2. Calibration in the morning (Do This or Don't Bother)

What You'll Need:

• That antique barometer of yours (which has the broken glass) of your dad.
• A jam jar of rainwater--real rainwater, and this time of the day. Not from the gutter. Not from the tap. The gutter's got pigeon dust. The tap has chemicals which sneeze thunder out of the machine.
• Your bare feet on cold grass. No slippers. No excuses.

How It Goes:

a. 5:17 AM. Not 5:18. The time with the machine is strange. Ask me how I know. (Spoiler: I got up in a hailstorm at 2 AM, because I snoozed after the first time.)

b. Take the rain water and pour it through the broken birdbath. The grate's rusty. You will have stains of orange on your fingers. That's fine. That's part of it.

c. As it fades, utter one thing that is really true. Not "I'm okay." Not "I'll get through this." Just... true. Similar: I had burnt the toast twice against because I was looking at your cup of coffee which you had emptied. Or "I still switch the shower to scalding in case the steam covers the amount of crying I do. The machine connects itself to the raw bits. The polished will slide right away.

d. Then breathe. Deep. Until your ribs ache. When the barometer needle suddenly twitches to a "STORM WARNING" then panic not. Just go inside. Make tea. We'll fix it later.

3. Cloud Seeding: When the Air Chokes.

According to Frank, cloud seeding was a show. Now the roses of Frank are in his freezer. Don't be Frank.

What You'll Need:

• Dandelions. Not those in manicured lawns. The hard little fellows squeeze through the pavements. They've got grit.
• The attic ladder. It squeaks like a dying mouse. Ignore it.
• A memory he didn't share. Not the Hawaii trip. Not the anniversary dinner. The little ones: the one when you lost the way behind the Dairy Queen when you were 14, or when you called the oak tree in the yard of Gran Buster.

How It Goes:

a. Noon. When shades become diminished to nothing. Climb up. Move aside the boxes of his old sweaters--they are still odorous of pipe and cedar.

b. On the panel behind our wedding picture. (Yeah. I know. I haven't moved it.)

c. Shake out the fluff of dandelions through the hole. Spank her as you spank those secret memories. Don't say his name. The machine plays it off with sadness.

d. Should the fluff get into cobwebs? Leave it. Spiders don't judge. They are simply glued with things.

4. When It All Goes Sideways (Because It Will)

Signs You're in Trouble:

• Before you can drink your tea it is cold.
• His aftershave is smelled in rooms without any open windows.
• Birds stop singing mid-chirp. Like someone hit mute.

What to Do:

a. Shut it down. Basement. Now. Beyond the boxes with the writing DON'T OPEN (YET). The emergency lever of his copy of Being and Nothingness, which is illegible at the same time. It's stiff. It'll scrape your palm raw. Hold it down.

b. Mop the metaphors. Stuff towels under doors. Put bowls under leaks. Wear his old flanny shirts--he sops better than Terry cloth. (Do not, do not think how his fragrance is still stuck to the neck. Just wring them out after.)

c. Reset yourself. Fill the tub with cold water. Dunk your head. Be down till you get your lungs roasted. When you come up gasping? That's the signal. The heartbeat is what the machine is attached to not your tears.

d. Then: Sit on the steps in the porch. Do not stare at the plunged tomatoes. She counts the mushrooms that are coming up out of the mud where his garden was. There's always mushrooms. They're ugly little things. But they grow.

5.The Real Cost (Nobody Warns You About This)

Frank did not simply lose his roses. He lost why he loved them. The machine does not merely dismantle things--it cuts interior out.

I learned this the hard way. I missed calibration last month. Too tired. Too raw. Woke up to the sunshine as white as it could take away the color of the hydrangees. Pretty, right? Wrong. The floorboards were beginning to split by noon. This is what the manual terms as sunny drought. The day I forgot how he used to laugh I call it. Not the memory--the sound. Like static on a dead channel. I was forced to smash a mirror to shake it back. (The cut on my thumb? Still there. A tiny scar. And like a full stop at the end of a sentence.)

6. Fall Is the Worst (Just So You Know).

And the machine is thirsty in autumn. Leaves fall. Light fades. It is as though you are tempted to snuggle up and vanish.

Do This:

a. The birdbath leaves into a lopsided heart. Imperfect. Like us.

b. In the middle put the smooth river rock of our honeymoon walk. (I keep it in my pocket. It's warm.)

c. Take the place of that dumb leaf-heart at night. Give the machine thy shade in the fading light. Whisper: "Let go. But not all at once."

d. When frost kills the leaves? Clear the black mush. Keep the stone. Such is the way you instruct a machine on stubbornness.

7. The Truth About "Fine"

If your sky is too blue:

You're lying. To yourself. To the machine. To the ghost of the flannel shirts.

Fix it like this:

• Take a piece of that shattered mirror. Put it into your palm, it hurts. and have your machine taste your salt.
• Put on his Ray Charles record. The skip in "Georgia" belongs to the one. Allow it to pass till your throat pipes up on the third verse.
• Do this, before the drought cracks your base. Floods can not dig your grave as sunny days.

8. The Last Thing I'll Say

The manual states: "Needs sacrifice each day. They meant truth. They meant showing up raw. It never mentioned that it would desire the empty places between the ribs of the girl where his hand had been.

I again skipped calibration this morning. The Hammer of the windows, Sleet. His flannel shirt's wet, and it is hanging over a mixing bowl dripping with the ceiling. Nevertheless, I ascend the ladder to the attic. Cobwebs snag my hair. The fluff of dandelions covereth the webs with filthy network.

I shove the panel open. Wind moans in. Ice cuts my face.

I miss you took away the covers I shout through the noise.

"I miss your terrible snoring."

"I miss setting two plates."

The barometer needle jerks.

It doesn't land on "CLEAR."

But it twitches.

Just once.

Like a heartbeat restarting.

I close the panel.

Go downstairs.

Make two cups of tea.

Keep one cooking on the counter.

Fix it like this: