The fog bank disguises the Ivy League executive enveloped within its clutches.
The cloud and our visitor are melded as one, like Fred Astair and a dance partner of times past.
We hear the orchestra playing the Charleston. Almost.
Squinting, we try to more clearly see the caricature. De we believe what we see?
Is this really a man standing in the midst of a fog bank? Or is it a figment of our imagination?
We want to believe that our eyes are seeing a man. Almost.
As the fog rolls forward, the width and depth of the white fog ball seems to recede.
We should be able to more clearly identify the man’s features.
Curiously, and without explanation our vision is blurry and unable to focus.
Ah yes, we can decipher that the man is wearing a double breasted grey suit.
Or is he?
Descriptive adjectives are on the tip of our tongue. Almost.
Conflicted, confused, a bit frustrated, we call out
” Who goes there”? ” Tell us who you are”.
A mumbled response moves through the air.
We decipher the utterances sent our way. Almost.
Who are we kidding? The jumbled mass of sounds is unintelligible.
Nearly exhausted, we crumble in a heap and lay on the grass beneath a giant oak.
The fog bank stops fifty feet from our resting place.
Stopped! The caricature, mocking smile intact, faces us straight on. His hands seem to be frozen at this sides.
We plead for some gesture of recognition.
Yes, we want to be friends with this person from a place unknown. Almost,
Are we viewing a ghost of lives past or our soon to be future?
Perhaps the picture of our great grandfather which has hung on each successive
generation’s dining room wall has come to life?
We reconcile to being in the presence of the forerunner of a welcoming party
telling us of our upcoming end of life experience. This angel of the future
has arrived in the form of a singular white cloud. Mesmerized, we succumb to its
power and sleep peacefully along the shores of Lake Geneva.
Are we to welcome the peace of death?
We are ready, prepared, at peace. Almost.