I check the weather in Seattle every morning. I don't live there anymore.
The boarding pass from my last flight is still folded in my wallet. The ink is nearly worn off.
Upstairs, my neighbor watches the same game show every night. The laugh track sounds just like his.
I was forty and between jobs when I moved to this border town. My siblings are all older, settled, and ten states away.
I gave him four years of my life. I lost the last one to silence.
Now I check the temperature and the chance of rain. I know when to tell him to bring a jacket, even though he won't hear it.
One day I want to stop. But not today.
The weather app is the first thing I open, even before my email. It's the only thread I haven't cut.