Fog

Margie is having a bad day. I texted her this morning and asked if she'd like me to bring the coffee. No, she said, she wanted to go get it with me. 

She met me in her apartment lobby without her hearing aids. When I gestured to my ears and mouthed "ears?" she shook her head and went back to the elevator. She came down a second time with the devices in her ears, but she couldn't get them to work, despite turning the dial on her phone all the way up. I took her phone and showed her that the sound was turned off. I turned it on, and the sound almost blasted her out of the lobby. 

We went out to get coffee, and she started to cross the street without looking at the traffic. I grabbed her, but twice in the space of a few minutes, she almost fell. When we were safely back in her apartment with the coffee, she was suddenly overheated and had to strip down. We had our usual lovely time, talking about the day, the hummingbird, the fog outside. She didn't want me to make a photograph of her today. "Make one of the fog," she said, and then laughed, "but not the one in my head."

I left her reluctantly, texted her daughter at work to let her know Margie's not doing well today. "I know," her daughter answered. "I struggle with letting go." Of course, I said. Of course you do.