A brightness, in the shape of a triangle. Sides too perfect, light too bright. It shouldn’t be like that. Outside, it’s raining already, dark. But through that crack, the light comes through. Celine comes out and stares, “What are you looking at?” “Weather,” I tell her. What a word, it tries to say so much. “We’re too hot one year. Too cold the next,” I continue. “We’re all worried now, like this has never happened before. Because when I was six, it was never too hot or cold. It was perfect. So was everything else. Now it’s all wrong, the weather AND the other stuff.” Celine isn’t smiling. She puts up an umbrella to keep me dry. “You don’t worry enough.” The year after, we come out three times instead of one, to look at that same triangular formation in the clouds. The year after that, it’s thirteen times. The year after, every rain storm. I still don’t worry. I try hard not to.