An Ode to Fog

Big Ben in London, of course | Copyright Siri Paulson, 2007

I’ve always loved fog.

I’m not even sure why or when it started. (I remember a beloved book from my childhood, Fog Magic by Julia L. Sauer, but I’m not sure which came to me first, the fog-love or the book. But I digress.)

It’s funny, because I’m not keen on grey skies or rain — give me sunshine any day. (Though I quite like snow, if it’s not accompanied by too much wind or cold. (Famous last words. It hasn’t snowed here yet this season.)) I was not impressed to discover, in Ireland, a sort of arrested rain, where the cold air was so heavy with water that you’d get wet walking through it. But fog…ah, fog is another matter.

A Love Letter to Our Future House

Somewhere in a big city sits an old house.

Its current occupant lives lightly, her world condensed into four rooms on the ground floor. The dining table is covered with a lace tablecloth and then plastic to protect it, the wood well hidden. In the enclosed front porch, tiny green shoots grow in long planters. A statue of Jesus overlooks the dim living room, where she watches television, alone.