I… am… your air conditioner.
I… am doing what I can.
This is my week.
This is my moment.
My lungs are as full as they are, and then they are as empty as they’ll ever be.
I’m trying; I’m trying.
This house, its rooms, all empty, and yet you ask me, all day, to make them 72 degrees.
And I try, but where are you?
You are in another 72-degree-place, drinking coffee that is 100 degrees. Give or take.
You see the men outside today, pouring the concrete and guiding the lawnmowers? They are my yang.
I am yin. I am air conditioner.
Is it just the cool you want?
You ask dehumidification. I don’t even know how that works.
Something happens inside me. I take the moisture, I take it away.
Do you ask where it goes?
(Some of you watch TV shows on “the way things work.” Some of you actually work for HVAC companies. Or install HVAC yourself. Apologies, comrade.)
You do not ask.
Any time, anyone, could open the door, and she could breathe.
As God intended?
I am your air conditioner.
I am your window unit.
I am sucking and blowing as fast as I can.
I know I am loud, but that is what it takes. It takes the energy of a big, fat plug. A special electrical connection. That’s what I take.
Sit before me. Feel better.
Or are you in a car, using yet another air conditioner?
I am a fan. Come and pick me up at a particular address. Haul me home on the bus. I can help you blow the hot air around so it feels not at all better, but different.
I am your power grid. I gotta go.