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to: the fog

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As I left the driveway I found myself surrounded by you. At 7:45 in the morning, no one stirred in our old island house.  The island, yet to wake up for the day was a symphony of birds and motor boats. I could hear my footsteps rise and fall from the worn pavement. 

This morning I cherished my walk alone. I'd been on full-time nannying duty for a week straight and the following day ten more people would roll into town--so I would take in all the quiet I could find.  

The trees rustled and it sounded like it was raining though it hadn't truly rained in days. The roads were darkened as if they'd just sat through a storm.  You had covered the ground around me with water--causing colors to shift and sounds to morph as water laced the leaves. The rustling made by you was beautiful.  Because of you I couldn't see the ocean on all sides of me, but I knew not even half a mile to my left and right, it was there.  

You're a funny thing, fog.  You hide some things and yet discretely reveal others--like the presence of a thousand leaves or the smallest cracks hidden when the pavement is light.  You keep my eyes on the road in case there's something looming in the distance I don't know about yet.   

This summer I haven't been able to tell what's happening in my soul--what's shifting and moving, being molded and formed.  But I trust it's happening in my midst. I hear the bristling of a thousand tiny changes as I walk forward in time, and I see the cracks of my history being revealed and recognized. What happens when you lift and I can see the sky again? I'm not sure--but I am sure it'll happen and I'll look back and see trees have grown and miles have been walked.  I'm not waiting for you to leave, I'm just curious to see what's been happening around me as I keep my eyes on the road ahead. 

to: the memoir writers

to: the memoir writers

to: the wanna-be world changers