Mist-ical

The foghorn is so evocative.

It's a sound I have lived with all my life and one that conjures up a host little scenes in my mind.

There's the woman strolling the beach, maybe looking for shells or sea glass, maybe lost in her own thoughts. She is wearing  a heavy woolen sweater against the chill, but her feet are either bare or sandaled. Does she find what she is looking for?

There's the clammer, knee-deep in the muck, gathering the beginnings of a pot of chowder with a large, curved, rake.

There's a couple, clad in shorts, building a fire in their damp cottage and planning to stay out of the foul weather for the day. A good day for reading and board games.

It's the lobsterman, not far from shore, whose puttering boat can be heard but not seen in the enveloping mist.

There's a woman on a bicycle in a bright yellow slicker, bringing back provisions from the market up the road.

It's the bustle of harbor activity in the early morning hours, before the fog burns off and the sun comes out. It's those moments that belong to the locals, long before the tourists have risen.

It's the train, speeding me off the island and into the city, where there is no fog. I think about those friends and neighbors whose work is where they live, and I can't wait to get home.

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[Linda J]

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