Woods in the Mist

I think of you but you are like woods in the mist. You’re there but I cannot pull you from the haze, like an object in space-time whose coordinates can only be guessed by quantum equations of probability.

I stop thinking, and open my mind, and accept that the mist is part of where you are, of who you are now.

And through the mist I see your face, and hear your soothing voice, and the chuckles from my childhood. And I feel your hand patting my back, and the arms always ready to welcome me.

The mist comes around, welcoming me in its arms, and I welcome it back. And now I see that this is the closest I will be to you. You will always be with me and I with you, like woods in the mist.


(For my mother, who is now in heaven, on her birthday.)


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