Fog

Yesterday my father kept commenting on the fog.

“I can’t believe how foggy it is out there,” he said every time he looked out the window.

The dense fog lingered all day. When I went for my evening walk, a heavy mist still rested on the fields.

My father had been bemoaning it. “It sure would be nice to see some blue skies,” he said.

But I thought the fog was lovely.

I could still see the farm buildings.

I knew the river lay beyond the trees because I know this land. I’ve walked this road a thousand times.

The road I’m walking with my father is newer territory, though.

Even though my mother had dementia, my father was her main care-provider. When he made the decision for her to go to the nursing home, we all knew it was the right thing to do. The nursing home was well-staffed, and we knew she would receive good care. I helped, but I wasn’t the main care-provider.

Now I am. I marvel at the job my father did. Often, though, I don’t feel equal to the task. I wonder about the cost to my family.

On my foggy walk last night, I stopped and looked at one tree for a long time.

It was so lovely against the backdrop of fog. Strong and independent.

Maybe as I walk this road with my father I need to look for those beautiful places.

We may not have blue skies, but there’s such beauty in the fog.

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21 thoughts on “Fog

  1. A beautiful writing about walking in the fog and going for walks with your father. Sorry about your mom’s dementia. It surely relieves some burden on your father when your mom is taken care by the nursing home staff. Your photos of fog are beautiful. I’m going to post some fog photos also!

    • Thanks for visiting! I’ve always thought fog is beautiful.
      The walk with my father is more figurative than literal. The walk of life, you know what I mean?
      My mother passed away about 1 1/2 years ago. Right around the same time, my father started having health issues. Since then, I’ve been trying to take care of him.

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