A sea of clouds beneath us.
Mountain chains
like frozen shadows
of surging waves.
The setting sun sinking into the fog
reminds me of the
yolk of a hard boiled egg.
And then, there’s the silhouette of
a mountain, like an island in the middle of
the sea of
clouds, and its peak reminds me of
the tip of
an iceberg.

The steering wheel of the car I’m driving
suddenly feels like the helm of a massive ship,
and I am the captain of that ship.

And now, the car dives like a submarine
into the fog.
I turn the headlights and the fog lights on.
I turn the hazard lights on,
and
its
clicking
sound
becomes our metronome.

I drive slowly,
very slowly.

My wife is in the back seat
next to my seven-month-old son,
who’s sleeping peacefully
in his car seat.

I keep on driving,
and
I drive slowly, very slowly.
And the fog
never
ends.
We can’t see anything.
“I can’t see anything,” my wife says.
“Please, be careful.”
Will the fog ever
end?
And the fog never ends
until it suddenly
finally
ends,
and
we can see
the road ahead of us
again.