We moved as slowly as blood through a thickened artery; oozing our way down the highway; a mass of individuals bound into a unified trickle toward our various destinations. It was "rush hour," but the term was irony at its best that day.
Mist shrouded familiar apartment buildings, disguising them as ghostly towers, mysterious as castles clinging to a mountain top in Transylvania.
In late evening, I left an out of town meeting. The mist had hung on all day like a guest reluctant to leave a party and now it had descended with spooky, tentacled determination on the concrete pathways from the city.
I mentally debated the unappealing options--the highway or the longer way, a side road home. Both held equal trepidation. I was already insecure driving unfamiliar roads but my decision was made when the on-ramp to the highway appeared through the mist and I made a split second decision to take it. The traffic was light and the journey home was uneventful and relatively fast. I breathed a prayer of thanks an hour later as I closed the front door--safely home!
What a difference a little fog makes--just vapour, after all; transparent droplets of water in air; transforming the familiar into an alien, mysterious realm, and slowing the rush of busy, driven commuters of a day into a slow parade of wanderers, held captive to its will.