Weather

Around the age of ten, the Rabbit began noticing weather.
Not outside.
Inside houses.

The Rabbit's mother was struggling.
She would spend days on end in bed.
The doctor prescribed medication.
The Rabbit was not sure it helped.

The Rabbit did not know the word depression.
Children rarely know the names of the things that shape their world.
They only know the shape itself.

The Rabbit knew that some days felt different from other days.
Some mornings felt bright.
Some felt heavy.
Some felt unpredictable.

The Rabbit began paying attention.
The speed of footsteps.
The sound of doors.
The tone of a voice answering a question.
The length of a silence.

The Rabbit learned that these things contained information.
Not information that could be written down.
Information that could only be felt.

Children are remarkably good at this.
They become experts in environments they cannot control.
The Rabbit learned to read rooms long before it learned to understand itself.

It learned to notice small changes.
Tiny shifts.
The kinds of things other people seemed to miss.

The Rabbit did not think of this as a skill.
It simply felt necessary.
Like checking the sky before deciding whether to take a coat.

Most of the time, nothing happened.
But the Rabbit liked knowing.
The Rabbit preferred knowing.
Because uncertainty always felt heavier than certainty.
Even when the certainty was not good.