the mist of memory and heart

There is a mist folding itself in between the tree lines near and far, blurring my sense of perspective and distance. The mist looks thicker through the rising sun, the light pulsing it into existence. There are bare branches, still slick with rain, little droplets holding on to the smallest of twigs, suspended in the same sunlight, a shining tree, growing duller as the sun strengthens and dries the evidence of the past three days rain.

It is morning: it is quiet, and still. Each morning I wake up and remember more and more of my dreams. They are transactional, like a checkout line at a store, or sorting through a library, or cleaning house and putting things away. My brain is trying to establish this new order, this new routine, this life without you in it. Every morning I wake up and I count the number of thoughts I have before my first thought of you. Yesterday it was three different thoughts before you. Today it was two. I start to remember our first kiss, in my car parked outside your house on the hill. We only had time for that one kiss, I had to work in the morning and you still had to pack and catch a plane. It was furtive, passionate, almost stolen. I still remember the hungry look on your face as you moved it closer to mine. I remember your hand on my stomach, a willful, excited explorer. All of you expressed one sentiment: more. It was hard to tear apart from each other that night, but life and its obligations were just outside the car doors, pressing their faces against the glass, breathing impatiently and fogging up the windows. Or maybe we were fogging up the windows. Either way, it became hard to see what was truly what, from that moment, until this one, where I can’t quite make out the tree line, where the mist obscures the details, the trees true colors, and what is near and far.

The droplets on the branches are like tiny diamonds, suspended like ornaments. They glisten and twinkle on the gentle breeze, different jewels showing themselves as the moving sun captures them in its shining. Every once in a while a droplet disappears, and I can’t tell if it has dropped, evaporated before my eyes, or just disappeared from existence. Any which way it feels like magic. If I pan out and witness the whole tree, it looks like blinking lights on a Christmas tree, but in nature’s own slow motion. Other drops seem to hang on indefinitely. I’ve had my eye on one in particular, that just doesn’t know when to quit. Maybe it’s wetter or denser than the others, is impervious to the heat of the sun, the cajoling of the wind to release itself into it’s unknown next form. As I write this I think I am perceiving it growing smaller and smaller, yes it must be. It’s becoming hard to see, almost a reference of itself now, and not its own thing. Perhaps I’ll watch it shrink into nothingness, burned up into the atmosphere, becoming a different state, one with the air around it. But the sun is higher now, and all the moisture in the air is meeting a similar fate. I can see the differentiation of the tree lines, near and far. I can make out the details of the pine, the deep dark green becoming more vivid with every passing moment.