Grey fog and mist caressed my skin. Moist. Clinging. A strong hand clasped mine but the grey obscured even my companion. Sounds were muffled. Sight reduced to nothing. Steps were cautious on the uneven surface. It felt like cobbles beneath my feet. Or was it just rocks?
Fog and mist swirled … all I could perceive were its shifting tendrils, varying shades of grey occasionally mixed with white.
The hand led me onward. I stumbled after, trusting its tug.
Dim, indistinct sounds echoed back from what must surely be nearby walls. The sounds shifted, more distant. Did we pass an opening? A cross alley to this – I guessed – ancient cobbled street?
Senses strained, I tried to discern something – anything – about our surroundings. We were, it seemed, walking down a street. Narrow. Stone walls looming on either side.
Strange when I had thought, just a few steps before, we were climbing through a narrow underground tunnel, uneven rocky walls twisting and turning as we laboured upwards. But then it had not been grey that shrouded my senses, but full dark. Black. Only a damp earthy smell a clue to our whereabouts.
And only the strong hand in mine leading me upward.
The dark had become grey. I thought, at first, it was an improvement. A sign that light and vision were imminent.
But it was only different.
Still I could see nothing ahead, had no inkling of our path or destination.
My companion, when questioned, spoke only three words: “Hold My hand.”
And so I did. I will.
I, one who always felt uneasy in dim light, always threw the curtains back, opened the blinds, sat at the front of the bus in order to see, disliked dusk for its diminished vision, hated sheers for the same reason… I was now walking in the dark – black or grey made little difference – with only a hand to guide.
I hold on.
Surely clarity will come.
In time.
Surely the path will become visible before me.
“Hold My hand.”
So I do.
It is enough.
For another story about seeing clearly…
