Salvia doesnít tell him where theyíre going. The morning mist hasnít lifted by the time they leave the house and itís hard to see much of where they walk; although he knows the streets well enough from memory, even without looking.
The fog forms enormous cocoons in places. They hide within these low-lying pockets. When they reach the park railings he peers into the smudged enclosure and complains, "I canít see any of the neighbourhood buffalo today. Or the bears." Salvia sympathises. "Never mind, but one or two of the ostriches are out and about." She points to a couple of topiaried bushes. They get to the park gates with white stone spheres atop and she adds, "I wonder how they got up there to lay their eggs?"
The cold moist air brings a return of Solomonís rattled cough. She hasnít heard him do that in a while. Salvia finds a stick that looks as though itís been dropped by a dog. She picks it up and runs it along the rails. "We could go and play Pooh sticks after weíve done this..."
"Whatever Ďthisí is, " Solomon mumbles.
October 17, 2002
Extract from Vitalize
by Pauline Masurel