That morning I woke to the sight of mist.
It covered everything, it was within and without. The bed is warm and the room is cold, pale sunlight creeps in. When I finally rise, slowly as if I had become the mist moving quietly over the mountain, I look out my window. Seeing the solemn scene of trees and rock, hearing the depthless silence. I feel such peace here, in the stolen moments when no one and nothing imposes itself upon my attention.
The breakfast table has a clean white cloth, and the basket of bread, a teapot, a jar of apricot jam, a delicate china cup. Quaint. That’s the word that came to mind as I scraped the jam over the warm bread, my favorite jam, a part of the experience of the mountain in Dalaba that remains with me. A memory from my childhood that has faded and softened but has endured.
We walked to the courtyard, my beloved brother and I, and I saw the great tree embedded in the stone. The mist can be seen stretching out beyond the horizon from there, trees and branches are shadows within the grey sea.
It’s so lonely to look out at the expanse, so full of immense solitude.
The mist leaves me to puzzle all the riddles of my life, but is patient. Kind.
I could spend my life here and be content.
This is a memory I will keep for a lifetime, a mountain, apricot jam, and mist.