As the fog lifts

I went out one morning in a thick Delta fog, my mood heavy and somber.  My feeble lens strained to capture the crows clinging to the towering trees. . . the geese in a distant field. . . the juxtaposition of wind, wing, and windmill.

I came home that evening and watched an impassioned plea from a news anchor whose partner had fallen ill with this terrible virus.  She begged us to reconsider any inclination to take the chances of infection as any less than certain.  I had been on the fence about going home for the holiday.  Her message struck home.  I canceled my travel plans.  I sent a message to the celebrity, thanking her for bringing me to my senses.  I called my sister.  I emailed my friends, my brother.  Then I fell into my chair and wept.

The next day my phone sounded with messages as I drove home.  My sister on the line from St. Louis, crowing:, “You’re in the news!” Friends on social media started sharing the link.  I scrolled through the article, unbelieving.  Someone had seen my message to Rachel Maddow; someone else had commented; and a connection had been made.  A story wrote itself.

My sister’s voice came across the miles.  Though I could not see her face, her radiant smile shone through the wire.  I took her love and pride into my lonely hours.  And the fog lifted.

It’s the twenty-first day of the eighty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

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