The Heat. The Fog.

Is it hot there? my mother asked.

She was calling from Illinois. I was in Texas. It had been warm during the day. But our warm was probably hot to her. Yet as the sun descended toward the tops of the Tallow trees on the far side of the pasture, the warmth of the day left. And as I stood there outside talking to her on the phone, it felt kind of chilly. But our chilly was probably warm to her.

So I really didn't know how answer her question. Instead, I told her about the fog.

From where I stood at the foot of the great pine tree, I could see a blanket of fog hanging over the field in the distance. As we spoke, its whiteness grew, and it came closer, swallowing the fence posts.

As I spoke, it came nearer. The Tallow trees waded in it, silhouetted against the distant Houston nighttime sky. Their crooked branches and those of what seemed to be barren oaks in the middle of the field stood out against the glow. I imagined standing out there in the middle of it all and described how the fog would have come up to my neck. And then I looked about me and saw that wisps had crept about my ankles and were gathering in the low spots of the yard.

As I described all this, the fog grew deeper, washing now against my knees, glowing white from the yard light on the house.

You'll have to draw me a picture, my mother said.

I tried to imagine sketching an advancing fog bank in the dark of night against a glowing sky, imagined how I'd sketch the Tallows or fence posts. Or not.

I just did, I said, in words.

The words were the closest I'd come to sketching it.

And you know, now that I think of it, I never did answer her original question about the heat.

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