My step daughter asked me the other day what a cloud felt like. I asked her what she thought it felt like. She replied “cotton?”. I basked in her childlike assumption that things are always what they seem, but then I broke the news to her. I explained to her that fog was a cloud that had descended down and when you walk through the fog, that’s what it feels like to be in a cloud. She seemed disappointed, but imagine if she was walking through THIS particular fog, which was sent to me from a wonderful reader in Connecticut. Read the story, in her own words:
It is an unusual 55 degrees this morning at 7am in eastern Connecticut, but foggy and raining. Walking on the path along the river I came to a bench and decided to leave my money there, under a small stone. Except for me, the trail was empty; nobody else was foolhardy enough to be out walking on such a grey day, or those who might have been were already on their way to work. There were signs of previous human presence, though: a discarded milk carton, a lost pair of reading glasses, and on the underpass near the water, some graffiti reading “F*** your politiks”.
I photographed the money, and walked away, wondering who would be the one to find it. Would it be today, a treat for someone else who will brave the dampness, or would it be one of the older folks striding to save their hearts in sturdy warm-up suits and sensible shoes when the weather is better? Or perhaps one of the children who stray from the playground, their curiosity bringing them closer to the water’s edge than their mothers would allow had they not been so distracted by the juicy story being told on a bench nearby. Maybe the money will be found by the disenchanted youth with the spray can, restoring for a moment that optimism that has been fading since puberty.
I will not know what becomes of that now soggy bill. It has already bestowed it’s gift to me, and my day will be filled with moments of imagination, as I envision the spark of light in a dreary day.