jml297

As a child, it had frightened her, this blanket of white. It obscured all that was familiar, creating a sense of foreboding. She recalled mornings when she had looked out her bedroom window, and felt a sense of loss as landmarks were hidden within the fog. Her mother, ever practical, would assure her that the fog was but a fleeting visitor, and suggested that she find something useful to do instead.

In the valley, the fog seemed to visit regardless of the seasons. It was more frequent during the cold stretches of winter, but it also appeared during the warmer months. A dip in the temperature, a wet front approaching, and the fog would cling to the valley.

As with many things, her mother was right. There were always things she could busy herself with inside, as the outside world was cloaked with a damp mist. But as she grew older, she began to see the fog from a different perspective. Instead of simply limiting her world, it added a different layer to all that was familiar.

She began with short forays into the garden, relying on her memory to guide her along the well-worn tracks. She found her way to the chook run, laughing as the hens emerged from the mist, their bright red combs luminous in the dull light. Their legs flashed about as she cast a wide arc with her arm to scatter their grain.

With their comforting clucks behind her, she continued along the track to the back paddock gate. The mist was tighter now, and she felt her lungs contract with the damp air. A soft, low neigh urged her on, one hand outstretched as her feet felt their way forward. Her vision was almost non-existent, but the air was scented with the familiar scent of hay. Ned neighed again, and she nearly stumbled into the gate as she reached a hand out to scratch between his ears. Ned nuzzled her hand and she spoke softly to him, relishing the warmth of his breath as he crunched on the carrots she fed him.

Her mother’s voice shimmered through the air, and she turned towards it. The fog in the valley seemed thicker now, and the old fear tickled along her neck. But she’d made it this far, and could make it back. She turned to give Ned a final pat before stepping into the shifting fog, her confidence growing as she heard the scratching of the hens and her mother’s voice, singing along to a song on the radio. The light from the kitchen was a soft and welcoming beacon, guiding her home.

This was written to a prompt at my local writing group. We usually come prepared with a couple of ideas each, but this one was generated on the spot on a particularly misty morning in the mountains.

Photo: trees in the mist