fog.

she rests her head quietly upon the snowy covered field. 
obstructing view.
covering the earth in her fog.
she's heavy and cool to the touch.  damp and silent.

she rests upon us in this hour ... wherein we are all fighting the urge to enjoy every second when we can never be entirely sure what will happen after this second. ticks. past.

i watched her from my car window.  in a backseat.
far away from my own family. 
the ache is familiar.

the wanting to be near them as the night falls upon the snowy ground and the world becomes dark and the fog settles her head into slumber.

it was so much more than just wanting to be near my own children.
it was realizing that i've been in that place before.
where the dark closes in and surrounds you. 
pressing into you and shoving you downward.

during the day, i can cope.
busy with the things
and the lovely chaos of our lives.

but as night awakens, i can't help but sob for the mamas that didn't get another second ...

i've walked in shoes that felt eerily similar.
(though i'm sure weren't the same at all.)

i remember the heartache at night.  when the world was silent and i would break down in a shower of hot water spilling over my shoulders.

and the days were filled with empty.
hearing without listening.
talking without feeling.

the dark has an awful way of making us feel small. 
hidden and lost.
alone.

i want to remind them/us that the sun is still there.
waiting.
there is still warmth and bright behind the fog and blackness.
(dark never fully leaves us)
but morning comes.
fog lifts.
the sun shines.
and beauty is still possible.

and i need to remind myself to be thankful for the chaos.
i could be missing it.
with an ache that isn't easily lifted.
like the fog.
that lies her head down upon the snowy blade of grasses as we drive past.