Yesterday my father kept commenting on the fog.
“I can’t believe how foggy it is out there,” he said every time he looked out the window.
The dense fog lingered all day. When I went for my evening walk, a heavy mist still rested on the fields.
My father had been bemoaning it. “It sure would be nice to see some blue skies,” he said.
But I thought the fog was lovely.
I could still see the farm buildings.
I knew the river lay beyond the trees because I know this land. I’ve walked this road a thousand times.
The road I’m walking with my father is newer territory, though.
Even though my mother had dementia, my father was her main care-provider. When he made the decision for her to go to the nursing home, we all knew it was the right thing to do. The nursing home was well-staffed, and we knew she would receive good care. I helped, but I wasn’t the main care-provider.
Now I am. I marvel at the job my father did. Often, though, I don’t feel equal to the task. I wonder about the cost to my family.
It was so lovely against the backdrop of fog. Strong and independent.
Maybe as I walk this road with my father I need to look for those beautiful places.
We may not have blue skies, but there’s such beauty in the fog.