I glanced out the bedroom window, noticing that it was looking like a very gray day. Novembers are often gray in my memories. When I looked across the street, I noticed how fuzzy the neighbor’s house looked. My first thought was, “oh great. Now I am near sighted and farsighted!”
After puttering around all day, I finally made it out to run errands. The temperatures were changing and I noticed that I really couldn’t see the buildings up on the top of the hill. I looked out over pastures and had such a comforting feeling watching the fog roll across the ground. I kept thinking about how so many scary movies have foggy scenes just before something horrible happens, but I simply cannot relate. I love it. And yet I had this feeling of how fleeting this is. I wanted to hang on to it – the fog and the feeling. Of course, that’s not possible. It’s like a dream that you try so hard to remember, but it’s just gone. That’s how fog is with me.
I think about different places we’ve lived and how foggy it was there. How in North Carolina, the fog would hang on the roads, or in the Blue Ridge Mountains, how you could see it float across the trees as it was settling in or lifting in the mornings.
And then, when I was driving home, it had gotten dark. But the fog was still there. It made the lights glow yellow and almost sparkle from the water droplets. This picture doesn’t really capture how great it looked around the lights on the toll road.
But by the time I got home the fog had lifted. As quickly as it had come, it was gone.