Accept Fog

When it snows in April you’ve missed the boat.

He strains his eyes at the wall of fog. It’s an experiment, it’s all it is. It must be. Signed the dotted line, didn’t he, without bothering to read the terms and conditions first. No, he didn’t sign anything, ticked the box I have read the terms of this agreement, like everybody does, don’t they, and no one has read them, cross their hearts. Clicked Accept.

Digital, it’s all digital, at the tip of your finger, yet disembodied and distant. He doesn’t remember when he last held a pen in his hand, last felt a blank sheet of paper surrender to his will, a decade ago or longer it must be. Tapped Accept actually, touchscreen, it’s all tapping and touching now.

Got the tablet as a present for his birthday, didn’t he. Daughter wanted his old laptop for his four-year-old grandson. Tossed all his photographs and memories into the cloud to make space for whatever it was she needed to install instead for the boy.

And then it was April and it snowed.

Maybe that wouldn’t have happened if he’d touched the screen without conjuring up the image of a real cloud in his mind. All he wanted, all he needed was access to his memories. And then it snowed.

And now this fog.

Is it even possible to touch anything, feel anything, or look at anything without having a thought, any thought at all? He stares hard at the damned fog. Nothing to see, nothing to remember. Far away a foghorn cautions.

Access to memory denied.

(c) Ash N. Finn, 2017

16 thoughts on “Accept Fog

    1. Thank you C.M., your visit and comment made my day. It’s a delicate subject matter that triggers fear, pain and anger in many of us who have been touched by it.

  1. Quite perturbing isn’t it — the fading into the unknown. A beautiful prose poem here. I believe I have an image entitled April fog. It’s when winter turns to spring. Is it not the reawakening.

    1. Thank you Susan, I could spend hours looking through your images. I spotted one from some time back, entitled Into the Fog, in which the entire landscape is fading into the distant unknown.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s