A World of One

fog 3

My bed is in front of a window. I should move it, really. Old apartments get drafty. But I like the sound of the cars on the interstate because their wooshing wakes me up. It’s a gentle way to begin the day. Nobody honks in rural New England. When I rolled over this morning, the other side of the street was barely visible. It was the densest fog I’d ever seen and the sight filled me with a sense of urgency. Marine layers burn off quickly when the sun comes out, or at least they do at home. So, I threw my coat on over my pajamas, tucking my plaid pant legs into the top of my Hunters. I grabbed my camera and walked outside.

The neighborhood was absolutely silent. In the center of the park, I looked at the tree line. Closest to me, the trees were made of deliberate lines. But, the middle-distance figures turned into figments. Farther on they were just vague silhouettes, more indefinite until they stopped existing all together. It was like rubbing away a smudge.

When I walked back into the house, I stood in the doorway of my bedroom. I stared out the window and then down at my bed. Half of the covers were rumpled and slept in. The other half were still perfectly straight. I crossed the wood floor to fold over the sheets and pulled up the corner of my comforter.

All this time, I thought it was habit. Or, I thought maybe it was loneliness. Some nights it felt like a symbolic act---half filled heart, half filled bed, defined by absence. But I felt full standing out in the fog, clutching my camera and completely alone. There was a surrounding presence in the dampening air. A weight, like the undisturbed covers.

I wake up to the same span of sheets that I always have. My hands rest on the edge of the mattress. All that exists is the world within reach. The rest simply fades into white.