A White, White Fog

A White, White Fog

Did you see that woman with
hair like a white, white fog
standing with her back to us
with one hand on her hip,
looking at a child face down
on the pavement?

      And you say, What woman.

And if I were walking, I would’ve
stopped to make sure that child
was okay, and possibly check
if the woman was okay, too, but
as we’re driving, every hesitation
just puts me a bit farther away,

      and I say,  You didn’t see her?
And you say your answer hasn’t
changed from last time I asked.
And I can’t really argue the point.

Now, if I were on a horse, I’d have
turned that horse around by now,
gone back to check on that child
on pavement, but because I’m
a passenger (not the driver), I can’t 
turn the car around, which means

there’s so much distance between
me and that woman with hair like
white, white fog that there’s really
no point in thinking about it more
because location really is everything.

26 August/21: for Stream of Consciousness Saturday, a rambling exercise. Shared with #APoemADay on Twitter   ©Misky 2021

12 responses to “A White, White Fog”

  1. Foggy hair and foggy memory; easily changes but their is a lingering tinge of regret. I’m always trying to follow my instincts, but I also am prone to ignore the feelings when I can’t find immediate logic to tie them to.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is so interesting, Misky. I love the sort of run-along way it reads and I love how the last stanza slightly echoes the first. And I love that inevitable gap of time and distance that you articulate so beautifully. I listened to this audio book (fiction) a few years ago from the point of view of a step mother who, while caring for her step daughter, loses her on a beach. Her guilt and fear are overwhelming. And there are so many passages sort of talking about a stone in a pond and the ripples out and the way the more time that passes, the more directions and distance the trail to her step daughter must chase. Your poem reminds me of this. It’s a beautiful and thought-provoking write.

    Like

    • Such a lovely comment to read this morning. Thank you. It was just one brief moment that caught my eye, turned my head, and filled me with alarm, indecision and then regret that I hadn’t acted on my instincts, and as all of that was spinning in my head, we were suddenly miles away and my mind was on to something else (probably what to cook for dinner). But oddly, that woman hasn’t left my thoughts. She keeps popping up like a hangnail on your thumb that you keep picking at. Anyway, thanks for the lovely comment.

      Liked by 1 person

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