Foggy mornings, “wolves would like them” used to say, my father. Neither he nor I ever liked them. They seemed like the path to unknown. We couldn’t see what was ahead and sure it wasn’t going to be a surprise.
Mountains and valleys echoed under his feet and the sheep herd ahead. Sun disappeared to its non-existence and we wondered if we ever saw it at all.
I walked to school on foggy mornings and my father slowly disappeared outside our mud-brick house, hidden under the snow. I listened to the sound of my feet butting into the snow and my eyes at a distance as far as one could see. My father worried about me and I worried about him and we spent our twenty years of togetherness like this. We hoped and we worked, we hoped and we worked for better days ahead. He, for me and I, for him. He would be glad, his wish has been granted. As for my wish, his time was cut too short.