Memories of Autumn

The fog was dense, an opaque blanket had been thrown over the city. It was nighttime. The streetlights were smothered, muted by the ominous cloud of particles that surrounded each raw bulb. Walking a few feet apart laterally, we made our way over what we hoped was Charles Bridge. I stretched my left hand out, trying to find the ledge. When my fingers touched the rough surface, I glanced to the right where the sound of his footsteps came and could only see a dim outline of his body. The fog was dense. His pace was steady. I could hear his exaggerated breathing with every few steps.

I stared ahead into nothingness. My left hand hovered over the ledge, occasionally dipping my fingers to tap the damp, cold stone. In the fog, the colossal statues that line Charles Bridge approached me with mystical glory. Out of the thick grey a dark, towering figure would appear, a poised body, a biblical promise. They were awe inspiring, and terrifying at the same time. The immense love and unexpected confusion that I felt at the moment only accentuated the contours of the dark figures, the chiseled faces and crosses.