The neighbourhood is dressed in fog for the second day in a row. I love the fog, its elusiveness, the self-assured way it swallows the street and the forest behind it, the way it gives in as I approach, revealing just enough. What it reveals is that the trees, overnight, became more orange than green. If it were in broad sunlight, I would call it autumn, but through the fog’s thin grey veil all I see is the death of summer. How considerate, I say to myself, to mute the colours and smooth the edges, to slow the time, to accompany the grief and the transition. Long time ago, when I lived by the Mediterranean Sea, I once saw a fog so dense, it looked like stepping inside a white cloud. I remember slowly walking to a particular spot that I knew opened a view on the salt marches and the sea beyond them and saw nothing, only white. And I thought, this would be the nicest end of the world one could imagine. It was in 2012, so we were all thinking about the end of the world anyway.

Since then, every time there is a fog, I am thinking about the end of the world.

By chance, Louise asked this morning about shape of water we are. A loaded question. First, I wanted to answer ice. Cold and brittle, worried, uneasy. But after giving it some thought, I’ll say fog. Sad and hopeful, clinging to the skin of the warm-bodied creatures for comfort.