Forecast Uncertain:

A Rainy Morning, a Funeral Flight, and the Grief That Follows

A rainy evening in Seattle casts a somber glow on the damp pavement, as cars drive through the glistening reflections beneath the faint streetlights.

Seattle, Washington

Wednesday, March 6, 2002

High: 38°F | Low: 21°F |

ClearWind: 5 mph N | Precip: 0.00 in |

Sunset: 5:50 p.m.

The sky above Magnolia—a quiet neighborhood just north of downtown—was overcast. Again.

I was heading back to Minnesota for my brother’s funeral. The flurry of the past 24 hours was a lot to keep track of, and Minnesota in March was a crapshoot of weather. At least there, amidst the early spring cold, the sun sometimes shone.

The sky was that bruised pre-dawn blue—light on the way, but no promise of it yet.

Catherine, my coworker from a job I couldn’t stand, had offered to drive me to the airport. I told her I’d take a cab. The flight was early, and a cab would have been easiest. But Catherine had insisted.

"I’ll be at your place at 5:15 a.m.," she said.

It was already 5:20, and there was no sign of her. I didn’t even like flying, and the thought of being late made my stomach squirm. I had spent so much money on the last-minute ticket, the rental car—I couldn't afford to miss this flight.

I waited in the dark. I had cried so hard the night before that I had vomited into the kitchen sink. The grief was visceral—unlike anything I'd ever known. Just thinking about the days ahead made my stomach churn.

How could my brother be dead?

In the distance, I heard a chug, chug, chug sound.

"Must be a tugboat in Puget Sound pulling a hundred-foot barge," I thought. But as a pair of headlights pierced through the mist, I realized it was Catherine’s car coming up the hill.

The moment I tossed my bag into the backseat of her beat-up car—cluttered with yoga retreat flyers and Reiki healing posters—her dog, Bohdi (which means enlightenment), erupted in barks.

You’d think I’d threatened her life—or his.

But something about my emotional state felt volatile. My brother was dead. My feelings swung between numbness and hysteria. Maybe the dog sensed something in me that I couldn’t even sense in myself.

"He’s sensitive to emotions," she said, smiling.

"So am I," I responded, climbing into her shitstorm of a vehicle.

Catherine looked like a young Mother Earth. Or maybe Mother Earth’s younger step-sister—the kind who broke kneecaps for people who refused to recycle cardboard. Her red ponytail was meticulously woven, trailing down her back to her waist. I knew I didn’t want to be on her bad side.

The dog kept barking. Nonstop. It did little to calm my nerves.

"Is he always like this?" I asked.

With a little nod and a knowing look, she pulled some kind of alternative meat dog treat from her pocket and lobbed it into the backseat. Instantly, silence.

I was sure it was an “alternative meat” treat because Catherine was a vicious vegan. She had every argument rehearsed—methane gas from bovines, the cruelty of factory farming, the carcinogenic dangers of meat—and could eviscerate her carnivorous opponents with a single, well-timed tirade. I had never been in her crossfire, but I had witnessed it plenty. I kept my love of filet mignon to myself.

She knew I ate meat. I told myself I was cutting back—but never turned it down.

We drove in silence. She didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know what I wanted to hear. I didn’t like flying anyway, but my mind felt pulled in two directions—I didn’t want to go, but I needed to be with my family.

Her car lurched and chugged down Interstate 5 with her foot flat to the floor. Even at full throttle, the jalopy barely hit 47 miles per hour. Smoke billowed from the tailpipe like a mobile coal factory.

I briefly pondered the disconnect: methane from cows was a crisis, but her tailpipe’s death rattle got a free pass.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thought.

When I opened my eyes, Catherine was staring at me, her face full of something between compassion and pity.

"Is your car going to make it?" I asked, forcing a smile, trying to shift the conversation.

She got serious.

"You won’t believe what happened over the weekend," she said. "I went to the co-op, and my car was acting strange. When I got home, I checked the oil, and the reservoir was empty. Luckily, I had some old oil in the garage, so I filled the engine, and now it’s running better than ever."

“Better than ever?” I repeated, my voice tilting with disbelief. I gripped the door handle. If this was an improvement, I didn’t want to know what it was like before. My fingers were ice. I flexed them, half-expecting a knuckle to crack.

Catherine was still talking, but her voice stretched out—long and slow, like sound underwater.

She turned her attention back to the road, full of confidence in her mechanical expertise. I braced myself for an explosion.

Seattle traffic was already building, but it wasn’t at a standstill yet. A city this size had a shockingly bad public transit system. The local government had talked about fixing it for years but had no vision to make it happen.

We were getting closer to the airport. I could tell because the pulp-sulfur stench from the paper mills hit me—the “Aroma of Tacoma,” they called it. It burned the back of my throat, but I barely noticed.

"Your brother killed himself…" My mother’s voice still echoed down the phone line. I knew what the words meant, but they wouldn’t land. They just floated, like something overheard in a movie. Someone else’s tragedy.

What exactly did that mean?

"How are you feeling this morning?" Catherine asked as she took the airport exit ramp.

"Tired, but okay," I said.

A well-timed question. Not much time left for an answer. And not much of an answer I wanted to give.

I wasn’t okay.

I wasn’t anything.

I was numb. Moving through my life, unaware.

Catherine’s car coughed to a stop at the SeaTac departures curb.

We both exhaled, hers steady, mine uneven.

"Don’t turn the car off until you get home," I joked. "It might not start again."

She wasn’t buying it. She reached across the center console, grabbed me, and pulled me into a hug—tight, grounding.

"I’ll call you," she said.

Then, as she pulled away, her voice softened:

"Just…” she paused, as if weighing the risk of saying too much or not enough.

“Don’t lose yourself, okay?"

Then she turned forward—quickly, like she could take it back just by pretending it had never happened. I waited, but nothing more came.

I stepped onto the airport curb and grabbed my bag from the backseat. Bohdi barked twice—like he was saying, “Get the hell out of my car and don’t come back.”

But as soon as the door slammed, he leapt into the front seat, curled up where I’d been sitting.

I watched him settle in, circling twice before pressing into the warmth I’d left behind.

I stood there, watching her drive off.

She barely glanced my way as she merged onto the service road.

I watched until her black smokestack of a vehicle disappeared into the mist.

I stood there longer than I needed to, waiting for something else. Maybe for Catherine to turn back. Maybe for the mist to spit her out again. But she was gone.

A raindrop landed on my cheek. Not a tear. Not yet. But there would be countless more.

The rainy season wasn’t over. The rain would keep falling. Again and again. And still, the forecast was uncertain.

Disclaimer: The content shared here reflects my personal thoughts and professional insights, but it is not therapy. If you are struggling or in crisis, please call 911, go to your nearest emergency room, or dial 988 in the U.S. (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline). If outside the U.S., please seek local emergency resources.