In the Morning Fog

I want the Fog to engulf me---to take me in with it's mini cool hands---scoop me up and carry me to a clearing on a small island all my own.

Leave me there and then slowly disappear—but not so fast that I lose the close comfort of it. Like a thick blanket against the cold.

I want first only to see an inch in front of me. Enough to guess what's beyond. Then slowly inch by inch I would watch it creep away—or perhaps it would just be me growing accustomed to it. Like your intense eyes against a solid dark night.

I would talk to the Fog—in a voice thick and wet like itself. We wouldn't talk about things like the weather because that would be too obvious. Perhaps we would have rich conversation, we would talk about souls lost in its depths. Fishermen, sailors--- lost at sea. The words they spoke into the fog and then to the ocean as they passed from this world.

In the fog I was expressionless...or perhaps I was not? Every feeling was all my own with no one to share with but the fog. My grief was just my grief and only I and it knew. The fog weighed so heavy on my chest that when it finally lifted...taken away by the too bright sun...it was like saying good bye to a friend. I was sad but lighter...it took my pain with it. It took my pain onto itself until the next time we meet. Leaving me both thankful for it but scared and worried for future visits.