The forecast scrolls across the bottom of the screen like a slow confession: freezing rain advisory through noon, gusts to thirty, scattered outages possible. The anchors read it twice, their voices lifting slightly on “possible,” as if optimism were part of the data set.
Outside, the trees bend toward each other in tired agreement. Branches rattle against power lines, and somewhere a transformer snaps with the sound of a flashbulb. The streetlight flickers once and steadies, proud of its brief survival.
I keep the radio on the counter for company. The meteorologist’s voice is calm, trained to soothe. He repeats the same phrases every hour, small variations of caution—drive only if necessary, avoid low-lying areas, report fallen limbs. By midmorning, he adds stay warm, the closest thing to prayer public radio allows.
At the window, sleet turns the world to static. Cars idle at the intersection, wipers struggling against rhythm. Across the street, Mrs. Larson pours salt on her steps in slow, deliberate circles. She pauses after each handful, scanning the sky as if it might negotiate.
By afternoon, the temperature inches upward but never arrives. The forecast updates: precipitation tapering by dusk. The weatherman thanks listeners for their patience, though the weather itself owes no apology.
By night, the neighborhood hums again—furnaces, televisions, cautious laughter. Power has held. The radio clicks off, leaving the faint tick of cooling pipes. The ice on the trees gleams dull silver, like punctuation in a sentence the day never finished. I turn out the light and listen for the sound of nothing changing.