My writing arm is rusty – I can’t blame it entirely on school.  Sometimes a silence just descends, blurring the inklings that might become words, into a soft fog that slips through my fingers the more I reach toward it.

This isn’t meant to sound sad.  I have loved fog since its thickening magic turned streetlights into moons outside the window of my childhood home near the Lake in Chicago, and enticed my imagination into the disappearing treetops of the park.  Snow and rain leave their mark – but fog casts its doubts on the solidity of the world and then withdraws its spell without a trace.

But I can tell you this – since I know you worry.  Work was good today, and the sun was still out when I left. I went to my first class, and I liked it.  I had a good dinner – porketta and salad.  And I thought, so much, of you.