Kitchen Fog

I am sitting at the kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle — the New York Times Thursday edition, the last one I can do on my own each week. My bowl of fish chowder beside me.

I don't know why, but I look up, and there it is. Fog is moving through the room. From one open window, across the kitchen, to the other. A band of fog.

It stays exactly as it is — never expanding into a cloud, just a long, silent stream. It moves like a cat, cautious and sure.

I call for you to come quickly. You walk in and see it immediately. You sit beside me. No words are needed.

The fog enters and leaves, slipping through as if it has somewhere to be. It watches us the whole way, knowing we could disrupt its trip at any moment. One closed window is all it would take.

But we don't. We let it move the way it wants to move.

Eventually I take your hand and we walk into it. The fog reminds me of us — we crossed paths twice. Once we moved on. The other time brought us here, standing in the kitchen in the middle of this quiet stream.

That is when I understand. The fog and our love move the same way. They don't ask permission. They simply arrive, pass through, and leave you changed.