Published at (in)courage.
It’s morning, so I unfold from my blankets and walk my still-pajama’d self down the stairs for coffee. On the way down the steps, as always, I cast a sleepy gaze out the large window above our front door. This window offers glimpses of what awaits after my morning coffee: rays of streaming sun or snow-covered trees or hints of green on waking-up branches.
But on this day, I peer out to see nothing. In seventeen years of repeating this ritual, I have never seen nothing.
A rare, thick fog has crept across the sidewalk and camped itself over our front lawn, cocooning us in. My sons pour cereal and I sip coffee and we all keep peeking out as we prepare to leave for the day. As we heave backpacks and lace shoes, still no hint of sky appears. It’s disorienting.
My youngest son and I walk to school on days when the weather is good. Today’s weather category is literally unclear — but after some debate, off we go. Not being able to see the full sidewalk ahead of us changes our familiar ten-minute stroll. Our steps slow and we get to school tired.
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