Fog demands faith you typically do not possess. Peering over you the tops of your knuckles; you have perhaps ten feet visibility, which means those random hands and eyes you cannot know possess the same potential, and determine you as much as your own skill or volition.
What is this, clouds upon the earth? Earth revolving toward the atmosphere, forever spinning and seeking? It is always about where you stand, and the direction you cast a given sense.
But driving east on Pioneer Parkway, liminal between Tacoma, Puyallup and Weller, the volcano creeps upon you. You resist giving into another fog, this milky ghost of despair. Feel it. Take it in, but do not let it consume you as if you were an arid slice of airline coffee cake and a careless cup of burned coffee.
Breathe it all as you drive east, the direction she soon, your daughter, will leave to, and in all likelihood, never return. Breathe in the years. It has already begun. It is not enough that she will be airborne; you need to know the vessel. You search her flight.Continue reading →