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.

-----/////-----          

“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.

            “Oh, I forgot.” My dad said simply.

            “You – oh my God. Okay, Finn, Barry’s in the hospital. He’s got a broken leg from falling down the stairs in his house.”

            “Oh,” I uttered quietly to myself, not sure whether to feel rapturous or sympathetic.

            “He’s not coming, that’s what your mom means," my dad walked through the door and shouted back, "We have to go now. See you!”

And just like that, they were gone, and so was the cold dreariness lingering outside.   

A way to describe my dad would be that he was always the typical happy-go-lucky kind of jokester dad that every kid wanted, the con being that he was extremely forgetful as well as a tiny bit clueless about his surroundings. Admittedly, my parents were both a little bit like that, so that's probably why their relationship consisted of 26 percent sarcasm, 35 percent comebacks, 89 percent me, and 2 percent bad mathematical calculations. And I think that’s what made them so easy to get along with and fun to be around; they honestly didn’t care one bit about what other people thought about them, only what they thought about me. But the problem was that sometimes they seemed so happy with each other that it brought other people down. For example, when Egan and I had finally warmed up to each other and he addressed the fact that I couldn't see, and he told me the reason he came to Ontario from Japan around fifth grade (it was because his dad had cheated on his mom) it hurt him to know that my parents were the 'perfect' parents. Basically his mom (who makes the world’s best sushi) was fed up, so sequentially they ditched the country to start over. His dad took his little brother Maxwell and his mom took him, and they lived happily ever after – just the two of them and occasionally me. 

            For the next few hours I strode around the house until I realized Orenda would be there soon. I unlocked my window and sat there on my bed, waiting for Orenda to come through within the course of an hour. I felt around my desk and eventually picked up the hardcover book that Barry had assigned to me, for learning purposes and responding with essays or whatever. So I sat down, flipped to the very first page and skimming my finger across the bumps.

            That book was said to be Barry’s childhood favourite, titled ‘Dotted Sidewalks’, even though the book had nothing to do with dots or sidewalks. Barry said that the main character reminded him of himself because (a) he was blind, (b) he was a boy, and (c) he was normally neglected. Barry also said that it reminded him of himself because the boy apparently didn't like his name very much, which was also the case with Barry. In fact, the boy never mentioned his name once in the entire book, nor did he mention or even ask for the names of anyone he met. I guess names weren't important to him, it was all about the words they said and the things they laughed at. I sighed. The only good thing about ‘Dotted Sidewalks’ was that it had extremely short chapters with extremely easy words, but the turn off (in a wonderful way, actually) was that it had so many metaphorical concepts.

I am a rock.

Because people pilfer me for my shell.

I am a bird.

Because people shoot me down and call me free.

I am the moon.

Because I have no light, and they give light to me.

            I flipped.

I met a girl today, her hair was silk, and her voice was honey. She called me to her, but I sat where I always did, on the paved roads. She never told me her name.

            Flip.

She came again. She told me that I was not who I thought I was, I was not a useless boy sitting on the streets, I was not a forgotten cigarette butt - I was purposeful. 

            Flip.

I truly hope my eyes don’t scare her away.

            I flipped again, my heart kind of contracting inside of me because it sounded like something I would think.

She came today and sat on the paved road, then held my hand. She said my eyes were not scary, she said my eyes were like hers. Then, she told me to get up and go with her, she wanted to help others, she wanted me to help others with her. I think she just wanted to help me. 

            I flipped hesitantly.

I did not go.

        Flip.

She never came back. She was a sunflower; and even though she never faced the sun, she was still beautiful.

I flipped again but soon realized that that was all there was - the book was over. I picked at the back cover in hope for maybe a preview of the sequel or something optimistic like that, but that was it, the book was over, the girl had gone, and the boy never left. The reason Barry was so glum all the time occurred to me, and I slammed the book shut, then tore off my glasses violently, blinking once, then again, then again. But each time I opened my eyes it was all the same exact thing. When I closed them, well, that's when all the colours that Orenda told me came flooding in, and I held on tight because I didn't want her to leave.

-----/////-----           

“Finn!” I jolted awake and pressed my glasses to my face, spinning my head around to hear where the noise was coming from.

             “Orenda?” I said, my voice was all sleepy and maybe a little bit delirious. 

           “It’s me. Get your shoes and maybe a rain jacket. It’s raining, isn’t that great?” I bent over and fished my shoes from under my bed. I put them there assuming that Orenda would want me to accompany her once again, and I was correct. She handed my jacket to me harshly.

             “Where are we going?”

             “Willow.” Orenda grunted and I heard her shoes splash into a puddle.  

          “W-willow? The tree?" I walked over to the window and Orenda grabbed my hand, then pulled me overboard, and then dragged me through several hundred puddles until my shoes were soaked. 

             “You want tiramisu? Go get it yourself in your free time," she let go of my hand and I prepared my white cane for the journey. "We’ve got work to do, come on.”

             "What work? Orenda May... please tell me what's going on."

             "You seem desperate enough to use my middle name as well. So first, we're going to see Willow." She laughed. "It's a surprise!"

So that was it, I didn't talk after that because apparently there was no point in asking at all. I felt around the back of my neck for the hood, since my hair was getting immersed in rain water and that was never a very good feeling unless it was extremely hot out (which it was not). I pulled my hood over my drenched hair and continued swiping my cane from left to right, left swing - right step. Right swing - left step. The rain was exotic but not exactly dreadful because it washed away a lot of the usual noise around the neighbourhood with a slightly better noise, and it also washed out the silence of the neighbourhood with an even better silence.

        "Okay, Finn, you're going to love this surprise. I can guarantee you that it'll surprise all the freckles off your face!" Orenda put her hand on my back and pushed me forward ever so slowly, until the rainfall decreased drastically and I realized that we were standing under Willow's protective shelter. Occasionally drifts of snow would fall down from Willow's branches in the winter, but I guess that didn't apply to rain because there was seemingly less liquid falling onto my head and definitely no drifts.

        "How pleasant." I sighed and wiped rainwater off of my nose.

        "You don't have to be so sarcastic all the time," she scolded. Then she said, "now, let's climb."

        "Pardon me?"

        "Climb. C-L-I-M-B."

        "Are you serious?"

        "Well I don't seem to be joking, do I?"

Instead of doing what she said, I stood there, as still as I could, hoping that Orenda would change her mind and maybe get some sense knocked into herself. She grabbed my hand and pulled me gingerly. "You can do it."

         "I beg to differ, Orenda."

        "How bad can it be?"

        "Well, I'm not one to ask, but climbing usually means getting far away from the ground, therefore resulting in the possibility of falling - because of gravity, you know, that thing - and falling may or may not end with death."

        "Finn, I promise you won't fall. Just, trust me, okay?" Her voice softened but i couldn't help but think that she was luring me into a trap.

        "I don't know a lot of things, but I do know that falling off of a tree would be pretty freaking painful." 

Orenda just scoffed and her shoes squished towards me, and then before I knew it, her hands were on my shoulders. "Are you trying to seduce me?" I accused. She didn't say anything, except for, "please?" In a if-you-don't-do-it-I-might-as-well-be-worthless kind of tone. Alas, it worked, and soon I was throwing my white cane in the mud puddles on the ground and getting ready for the anfractuous journey, then pulling myself up blindly (as literally as something literal can be) whilst hoping that I wouldn't fall and kill myself unintentionally.

        When I reached the top, Orenda hoisted me up and we sat there, my back against a thick, sturdy branch and my legs dangling from the branch I was sitting upon. I had to admit, it wasn't that bad, mainly because it hadn't taken me that long to climb up anyway. Small raindrops could be felt again, suddenly reminding me that there was, in fact, a world outside of the canopy that Willow always provided. I leaned my head against the branch and finally exhaled freely, something I might've been holding in if Orenda hadn't indirectly tell me that even though I couldn't see what I was doing, didn't mean that I didn't do it. The cool bark on the branch stung the back of my neck, but it appeared to be very insignificant all at once.

        "So? How is it?" She asked, holding my hand and fiddling with my index finger.

        "I like it up here." I answered.

        "I feel like no one could hurt you up here, nor could you ever fall down because Willow'll always have you by her side."

        "Honestly, I trust Willow more than I do the majority of society."

        "Me too. Inanimate things are less, well, capable of hurting you I guess." She dropped my hand on my lap and kicked my shin lightly with her foot. "I feel free," she muttered.

        "I feel truly free."

        "But that's the problem!" Orenda announced, and I jolted from the sudden excitement. "You are never truly free. Of course, you can be physically free, right? Run in a meadow, whoop you're free! Soar through the sky, you're free! Climb a tiny tree, you're free! But all in all, you're never really free because you still have your mind. And do you know what that means?" Her words popped with enthusiasm.

        "No, but I'm assuming you d-"

        "Your mind is a cage!" She bursted. "All you do is wander around inside and hope for an escape, but the best one you can get is the escape from your surroundings. But your thoughts swirl around inside the cage - your mind - and you just sit there and drown in them. Not literally, but it sure feels like it. Now, what I've realized is, you can choose to ignore those thoughts and stop breathing or learn to swim. Freedom is essentially a choice, no more, no less. It's not if you're in a prison or if you're galloping through the woods on your trusty steed or something. It's up here." She touched my temple. "And... if you want to experience true rasasvada, while you're stuck in a cage, you might as well make it pretty." Orenda shuffled around shoved something into the palm of my hand, a glossy, slim piece of wood that fit into my hand perfectly.

        "What's this?" I whispered, mostly to myself, and flipped it over. I touched the soft bristles and the cold metal leading to the wood, then finally realized that I was holding a paintbrush.

        "You're going to paint, let's go." Orenda slid down Willow and I followed, feeling the rain once again, falling steadily and perhaps even harder.    

        "I'm going to paint," she handed me my white cane, "Orenda May... I'm going to paint a picture?"

        "Mm hmm."

        "I can't d-"

        "Don't you even dare, Finnegan!" She laughed and I shut up.

I twirled the paintbrush around in my palm, feeling all the small little details on it; the crease in the metal, the jutted out bristles, the carved out words on the side of the slippery wood. It all seemed so new and foreign to me, I hadn't even held a paintbrush before, at least none that I can remember. Turning my head towards Orenda, I could tell that she was carrying other objects because they clunked and bonked with every splash. We walked for a long time, with nothing unusual - Orenda warned me of a curb, I tripped over the curb, she resorted to grabbing my hand, and obviously I let her. Our paintbrushes knocked against each other seeing as our hands were connected and ergo so were the brushes. 

        "We're here." She stopped and I did too, all the clunking and bonking stopped and so the rain was the primary source of noise once again. Orenda let go of my hand and I stayed in that same exact spot while she thrashed around with all the crap she'd hauled along. Apparently she had been storing all that stuff in the tree, but I didn't know that at the time. Anyway, a sound similar to squeezing out almost-finished toothpaste and clattering of plastic began, while I still hadn't moved a muscle. Orenda then handed me a plastic plate-like thing and said, "dip it in." I did just that, I put my paintbrush carefully into the plate and when I touched the end of it, a thick, gooey substance lingered on my cold fingers. Paint.

         "Now flick the brush! Don't worry about anything, just flick it!" The rain started getting heavier and heavier, each droplet pounding on the palette forcefully. I flicked, and I cringed, knowing that the wimpiness was radiating off of me.

        "But why?" I asked. Thunder sounded.

        "You're painting your cage, Finnegan." She replied calmly, as another clap of thunder rang.

        "We gottagowegottago! It's raining!" Rain pelted my face and my hand, every drop stinging.

        "Well, duh!" She laughed, and then thunder. "Dot the sidewalks!"

        "Dot the - the what?! Where'd you hear that?" I was starting to lose my grip on the paintbrush, but I flicked it again nevertheless.

        "The sidewalks! And I don't know, my brain?"

So then I started thinking about the boy, and how the girl tried oh so hard to get to know him, but he wouldn't get up and dot the sidewalks with her. If he had just dotted those sidewalks he would have created such a beautiful place, regardless if he could see it or not. Other people would smile at the sidewalks that used to be so rough and plain, but instead it was filled with joy from within. He would have created a masterpiece of his mind. But then she left, and then he realized that there was no greater pleasure than simply dotting a sidewalk, symbolically or not. So, I flicked and dipped, then flicked some more and repeated that same action until I was drenched to the bone, but I kept going strong. Orenda flicked with me, her paint occasionally landing on my face or arm, but the rain washed it away. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I could see the sidewalks filled with the baby blue and the loving pink, and the cleansing white that Orenda had told me about the weeks before. I flicked and we laughed until there was really no more space (that's what Orenda claimed) and there was not even a drop of paint left in her paint tubes and there was no any energy left in us. There wasn't even any rain left in the clouds.

        "It looks so beautiful," Orenda said in awe. "Thank you, Finn."

Update - that was the greatest miracle. That somebody like Finnegan Annson - video game champion of the bungalow, ditching master of St. Hemling, tripping marathon winner of curbs and rocks - could make a masterpiece. That Finnegan Annson could dot sidewalks worthy of Orenda May Castellano's compliments. That Finnegan Annson could paint his thoughts and emotions that always seemed so non-existent, that I could create a masterpiece of my mind. I didn't let her leave. And yes, I would gladly do it all over again.