Driving Through Fog
by Laura Grace Weldon

Fallen clouds hunker
like ghosts on the street, willing
my headlights to glare back at me.
Sometimes illumination
obscures the way.

Growing up I knew where my father was.
He whistled, he sang,
he talked to plants while gardening
and cars while tinkering.
One night, driving
through fog he called pea soup
he explained how lighthouses
help ships navigate.
Their lights don’t shine
in one place, they sweep
across all possible paths.
When clouds hover close
they speak in foghorn voices,
saying I'm here, I'm here,
I'm here.

He piloted the car past signs,
buoys above a lost road,
blasted the horn before each bend,
waking the night
in our delicious game of make-believe.
I don't remember where we were going
only our steady ship,
only his hands on the wheel.

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