There is fog coming up to the buildings' mid-bellies, then thickening to a blockade of pure white as it advances over the lake.
Of course, where I want to be is at the foot of it all, trenching my way through it like it's snow. There's a key I've been asked to hold, knotted onto a thick leather shoelace. The key showed up in my mailbox during the night, in an un-addressed envelope that had a purpled "hold onto this" written along the seal's fault line.
There's sun here, right where I am, but it looks peckish, unwell.
I have a clue who sent the key to me, or rather, rolled it over in her wheelchair, the leather shoelace wrapped around the electronic lever that squirts juice into the mechanism that makes the chair go.
It feels like a place for felons here on my front porch. The concrete is mottling my skin, which doesn't hurt, but seems worth noting. A kid skids studded bike tires down the hill. A bird up in the crown of the shaggy willow across the street makes a sound like its throat has been cut.
Laurine, I wonder if you're coming back? Or maybe getting ready to call me to explain the significance of this key and why I've been tasked with holding it? Or maybe there's a good reason I'm forcing myself to be ok with the idea of sitting here forever, looking at the ever-denser fog, mentally playacting abandoning every thing I've ever been to its blind, obliterating canals?
A van pulls up. I rush behind a shrub.