Ground Fog

It was eerie, driving down the road of our complex right after the intense rain. The night was dark with barely a half moon peeking out from behind the angry clouds. The blacktop, still hot from the beating sun of daytime, became a steam iron of reaction to the cooling deluge. Wispy columns of thin fog rose lazily from the pavement, dancing dreamily in front of our headlights.

It was a scene straight out of Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream. I half expected our slow pace to be suddenly interrupted by Oberon chasing Titania across the grassy meadow just beyond the stand of pine trees at the end of the loop. Even Drew remarked on the magic of the night. Perhaps we would slide right into Narnia and have an adventure!

But alas, the only adventure waiting for me was the thrill of cleaning up the kitchen and taking out the garbage. No goosebumps and unicorns in my destiny tonight. When at long last I lay down for the night, listening to the rain pattering now and again against the roof as the storm front rolled past in waves, I could smell the freshness of the air washed clean of grime and pollution.

Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove's soft whrr echoed sadly, unanswered. The whole scene was vaguely reminiscent of nights spent at Gramma's house, sleeping in Aunt Lil's room (it was always called Aunt Lil's room long after Aunt Lil had passed away), inhaling the sweet air tinged with chicken coop and garden fertilizer, lulled to sleep by the gentle tap tapping of the dark green windowshade against the wood sill as the night breeze fluttered the sheer curtains out and in, moving them as if some sleeping giant were inhaling and exhaling just on the verge of falling asleep.

I am not so far from that little girl growing up in the comfort and security of an old clapboard house tucked near the edge of a sleepy Route 50, surrounded by the rows of corn and tomatoes, iris beds and lilac bushes, the old red barn and the steel garage with its inviting piles of stone and sand.

On a magic night like this, I can almost get back there, almost smell the oil of Grampa's automotive shop, almost hear the chickens clucking themselves to sleep, almost taste the warm juicy tomatoes straight out of the garden, almost hear my Gramma calling up the stairs through the curtains hanging at the bottom step, "You alright, Sis?"

Yes, I am. I am alright. I am still alright. A magical night indeed. I roll over and take a deep, satisfying breath.