A Foggy Farewell

It was a foggy day — the kind where time slows, and the air feels heavy with memory.

It happened suddenly. A call in the quiet morning — my maternal uncle was gone. The words echoed, distant and unreal. Within hours, we were on the road, winding through hills soaked in drizzle and silence, heading home for the last rites in my village.

By the time we arrived, the mist had wrapped itself around everything — trees, rooftops, and memories alike. The paddy fields stood almost ready for harvest, their golden tips swaying softly in the drizzle. Every stalk bent, heavy with grain and rain.

Somewhere between the fog and the earth, life and loss intertwined.

Across the field, I saw people gathering. There was a stillness to their movement — quiet, purposeful, tender. The smoke from the cremation site curled upward, merging with the mist until both became the same pale grey. The sound of the chants blended with the hum of water trickling through the fields.

My uncle’s life was simple, rooted in soil and kindness. He was a man of few words, but every harvest, every tree, every patch of green seemed to remember him. As the fire burned softly through the rain, I thought of his hands — how they had tilled, planted, built, and blessed. Now, the same soil was taking him back.

The fog grew thicker as the day passed, folding around the village like a blanket. The drizzle continued — not quite rain, but enough to make the air shimmer. The fields stood quiet, patient, as if bowing to the rhythm of life and loss.

There’s something about grief that doesn’t need sound. Sometimes, it’s just the whisper of wind through the paddies, the soft hiss of drizzle on leaves, or the faint echo of voices fading into fog. I stood there for a long time, not speaking, not moving — just breathing in the stillness.

The road back felt endless — green fading into grey, silence following every step.

By evening, the fire had turned to embers, and the village had gone quiet. The fields shimmered faintly under a pale sky. Maybe, I thought, this is what peace looks like — not absence, but return.

🌫️ A Memory in Mist

As we left, I looked back one last time. The fog had lifted slightly, just enough for me to see the horizon — wide, golden, and endless. Somewhere out there, the fields would bloom again, and in their quiet rhythm, his memory would keep growing.