Callie slips out of bed slowly, carefully, so as not to waken Joe. Years ago, she tried to invite him into her world. “A new day is breaking – come see!” “No, no, let’s go back to sleep,” was his reply. Now she goes alone into the arms of dawn.
Fog fills the folds of the soft blue hills, blending and smoothing all shapes, softening all edges. For a moment she is wrapped in a milky haze shimmering with pale light. She cannot find her way, so she stands still until the undulating blue landscape reappears, trailing wisps of cream. A slight break in the fog reveals a tiny sliver of moon.
She turns to look at the house behind her, but it has been swallowed up by the tip-toeing mist. Never mind. Her natural home is the rhythm of the rolling hills, the feathery fingers of fog that touch her cheek with such tenderness, the hush of a world holding its breath in the sacred moments just before dawn. Callie draws her strength from silence, from the sparkle of dewdrops on a spiderweb, from the soft pitter-patter of spring rain.
Joe opens sleep-filled eyes. “Callie?” His voice is a medley of caring, concern and resignation. He knows she doesn’t hear him. Even sometimes when he holds her close, she is far away, a woman of soliloquy and spaciousness, of colors muted and mixed on her inner canvas. Joe treasures their everyday life – eggs scrambled with dill and chives in the sunny breakfast nook, an extra log tossed onto the crackling winter fire, climbing the stairs to bed hand in hand. His love for her, like the fog, smooths and softens all the rough edges of their shared solitude.
Stirred by the depth of his feelings, he calls to her again. “Callie?”
“Coming, love.” She leaves her home and returns to his. Together, they watch the last tendrils of fog fade into the bright morning.