“I’ve only touched the fog three times before” he told me from the backseat.
“Is that it?” I asked, downshifting as we turned the corner.
“I think so, once on Mt. Roberts and once skiing up on the ridge and once at the park, remember you said it was a morning soup?”
The marine layer was thick but fragmenting in areas, allowing columns of October light to filter through to the damp pavement. I had rolled all the windows down as we drove down the steep hill at Main street, hoping this would help to see but it didn’t. Once we got on the road along the shore though, things began to get interesting and as we crested the big cement hill of the Island bridge the car broke through into the full morning sun, the town behind us lost in a swab of fog that collected at base of the mountains.
“Eyes, eyes,” said the baby, squinting in the rearview.
“We could touch some more if you want,” I said.
I cranked the wheel against the bank of the roundabout.
“Catching fog isn’t quite as hard as catching frogs.”
We reached our open hands out the open windows.