We have been “fogged in” for days now.

The antique store a few blocks down disappeared first.

Followed by the market at the end of the street.

Yesterday, the neighbor’s house, which I could see clearly in my mind, was swallowed up by condensation and existed only in my fragmented memories.

The world quickly became much smaller.

Reduced to what we could see and hear and touch and believe in.

Ledges and bridges dropped into nothingness.

Requiring a trust I do not possess.

I hear the train, slow slightly at the crossing, blare its horn and barrel through, hoping the path is clear and the tracks will be there on the other side of blindness.

I hear ships in the harbor call out to one another, alerting them to fog and their location, guiding them to safe passage.

I hear our “owl baby” call out into the void, reaching for something beyond the parameters of what he can perceive.

I hold my breath and count to twenty two before I hear another owl answer, and exhale.
Knowing he is not alone.

My husband takes the dogs out.

Into the yard a few feet away.

He steps off of the last stair, disappears into the mist, and I am suddenly alone on the landing.

Fog swirling at my ankles.

Fear nipping at my heals.

Afraid of being abandoned.

Afraid of stepping beyond what I can see.

I stand frozen, call his name, hold my breath.

I get to twenty five before the dogs rush by my ankles on their way into the house.

Thirty, before my husband appears and squeezes my hand on his way up the stairs.

Thirty five before he closes the door behind us, locking us into our own private world; alone with what we can see, hear, touch and believe in.

Forty before I release his hand.

Hours before my heart regains its normal rhythm.

Days before I exhale……