Fog on the Thames, London, 1954 by Inge Morath
Even if you asked where I've been for the past 2 months, I don't think I'd be able to give a clear answer. A little here. A little there. A little physically present. A little thoughtfully present. Thoughts floating. Mainly to Ireland and England.
My 5th graders and I were talking about the word "mist" last week, and I swear their attempts to explain what the word means could be short poetry.
"It's... like... the .... when my mom picked me up from school. She had an umbrella. And she held out her hand and we ran to the bus. That was mist."
Or.
"When someone throw you the ball in gym class and you don't catch it."
Me: "Are you talking about the word missed?"
"Oh. Yes. Missed. I'm so confused."
Bless their little, loving hearts.
