I’m resigning. I don’t want to be a climate change warrior anymore. I’m inclined to blame my change of heart on my sister’s death. It would be easy enough to do.
It was quiet in my growing up house. We closed the front door with silent deliberation and spoke to one another in soft tones. My parents didn’t raise their voices, either in anger or delight. We kept our feelings of fear, grief, sadness, even joy, corseted close, as if their release would tip the earth from her axis. Tears happened in muffled sobs in the corner of a bedroom. There was no room for anger.
I sat on the edge of my bed, too hot to move, and cursed the yipping dog across the street. I cursed the sirens, the leaf blowers, the loud man on his cell and the incendiary news of the day. I wanted to throw rocks and bash people over the head with pillows. I hated the city, the heat, my neighbors and even my friends. I needed the Great Out Doors, and I needed her fast.