When the horizon begins to appear

Early Saturday morning, I left my sleeping husband and slipped quietly out of our room into the hallway of the old mountain inn where we were staying. The building is so old that floors aren't level and that, combined with the flowered wallpaper, made me feel a bit seasick as I tiptoed down the creaking stairs. The screen door slammed behind me as I stepped onto the porch where wooden rocking chairs were clustered as if filled with imaginary guests. The dew from the grass soaked the hems of my pants.

On this foggy morning, so much was hidden from view: the mountains, the opposite shoreline, even the trees above my head. As I walked, I could see docks extending into that blurry whiteness, and boats tied alongside them, and canoes pulled up on the shore. The breeze spread dewdrops along my face and arms, waking me up as I watched the far shore appear as the sun rose above the mountains to my east.