grey days of charleston

Today was, indisputably, a grey day. When Charleston is overcast, it seems to be a different place. The clouds hang low, like they’re right on top of your head. One can nearly touch them. Sometimes the tops of the Cooper River bridge are lost in the mist. The cables of the bridge, though, are brightly white against the grey. I always notice it when it’s rainy. The cables pop. 

Looking out over the harbor, from the battery or waterfront park, you can tell the difference between ocean and sky. But not if you let your eyes get out of focus. If you do that, or don’t look too hard, the water blends into the sky and the distinction between the elements disappears, broken only by the color of the whitecaps. For some reason, these days have their own beauty, perhaps the beauty that comes from the severity of a scene, the bleakness of a view. Sometimes that’s when the city is the most real, when the tourists are all indoors, when there’s no sun shining down or picnicers in the park. There’s only the people who call it home, who are here when the sun doesn’t shine and the hotels are empty, when the parks are empty except for the figure or two silhouetted against the greyness of the world.