Yellow (editing)

Dotted Sidewalks

If I had to choose to be one hundred percent sure of anything in this world, it's that there are a lot of possibilities for a miracle. For example, bringing someone who’s dead back to life is a miracle, as well as the heroic action of saving someone from death before it even happens. A little spider that learns to spin a web on its own is an evolutionary miracle, and it seems that Steve Jobs is a technological miracle. Pizza could be a culinary miracle. The Beatles - they could be a musical miracle. In fact, there are so many possible miracles that they overthrow the impossible ones, actually, for a miracle there are no limits and therefore no impossible miracles all together. Anyway, there's so many possibilities that I myself have experienced them; one time during those dreadful weeks at St. Hemling School for the Deaf and Blind, I decided to take a stroll with Marybeth through the woods without our canes (that we were learning to use) and we fell off a ledge which apparently led to bramble thorns – but we landed in the only patch of grass there was in that entire undergrowth. 

That was a miracle.

But there was no greater miracle than the sound I heard on my window, pitter-pattering on the cold glass.

Rain.                

            The last time I heard rain was during a thunderstorm in November, and all the following days were filled with either the scorching hot sun or the snow (blizzards, hail and ice chunks included) so that was a pleasant surprise. The unfortunate part was that since the ice and snow had been beaten down by the rain, Barry could come to our house and torture me some more. Which also meant that my parents could leave for their meeting and that meant Orenda would be here at 1 o’clock sharp once again, and we could go and eat tiramisu.

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“Finny, come here and bring your plate to the table!” My mom shouted across the room, and I counted my steps there, got the food, and then counted my steps back. Twelve in total. Our bungalow was not very big and obviously not very tidy, which was most likely the reason my parents tried their very best not to stay inside for too long. I had the suspicion every once in a while that they really didn't have accountant training meetings, but were instead out partying with their friends. It usually left my thoughts as quickly as it entered.

            “So, the rain. That’s quite the change.” My dad said, his voice even gruffer than last week.

            “Isn’t it?” Mom set her plate down. I pushed my glasses up and brushed my hair out of my face, trying to look as cool as I could.

            “The last time it rained I think Finn was still wearing diapers, huh?” My dad chuckled and I slapped him on the arm and he cackled in a way that made me worry about his well-being.

            “I think you’re mixing us up dad, because last time it snowed, you were wearing diapers. Oh wait. That was yesterday.”

            “I agree Finn, your dad’s losing it.” My mom said, her mouth full, probably with the half-burnt pancakes that she claimed were her specialty.

            “His hair or his IQ?”  

            “Okay, okay, okay. I get it!” Dad messed up my well-fixed hair roughly and left the table. “My family is saying that I’m losing my mind and maybe even my hair. How sweet.” Then they stood up from the table and I heard their zippers zipping and I stood up along with them, counting the steps to the front door.

            “Where’s Barry?” I asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be here?”

            “You didn’t tell him?” My mom said in disbelief as she tousled her jacket and opened the door, the smell of wet grass and fresh droplets drifting into the house.