one was helpless before everything

from Lorrie Moore, A Gate at the Stairs

The sky was partly clear, with ballooning clouds floating absurdly above, as if for a party that had yet to begin. Low on the horizon there were different clouds, like old plowed snow at the end of the street. I was like every kid who had grown up in the country, allowing the weather--good or bad--to describe life for me: its mocking, its magic, its contradictions, its moody grip. Why not? One was helpless before everything.