Catch A Raindrop

I sit on the curve, side of the road, shoulders slumped, hair flat. I sketch; I draw for hours, angry eyes and a stern mouth. A butterfly. I am working on a hand, my hand. The hand I was supposed to have, a perfect hand. On the opposite side was a picture of my real hand, my deformity. I almost manage to laugh and cry at the same time. Storm clouds billow above me as if they were angry with me too, God, I hate rain, if only because I can never truly touch it. (1)1

I slid my purple backpack off my shoulder and hug it to my chest; gently closing my eyes. Tears stream down my face. A slow drizzle starts, soft wispy voices enfold me, like children laughing. I open my eyes like a tragic heroin, wishing I could be perfect, have two perfect hands. I can never catch a raindrop with my deformity. (2)2

I’m never going to be normal, but I’m not the good kind of special either. I really believe this- slowly, I raise my sketchbook, to the sky, my imaginary perfect hand faced up. Daring nothing, hoping for something more. I watch as it falls from the sky, right into the middle of my hand, as if in a babies cradle. Though it has smeared the drawing, I laugh. I’ve always wanted to catch a raindrop. I close my eyes again, listening to the silence. (3)3

I find none, instead I find millions of voices, and I can hear them all. I raise my stub arm to the sky and watch as the baby raindrops slid down my arm, giggling with glee. I smile. A gift for a gift. I’ve had my miracle, let them have theirs. They are so pleased with themselves, it is almost contagious, they are all perfect. Slowly, one after another, they are all gone. (4)4

I strain my ears, hoping for the raindrops to come back. I hear….a soft delicate sobbing. All but one. I look down at my sketchbook, and slowly take the little drop in the nook of my arm. (5)5

I ask, ‘What’s wrong’? it seems to understand. (6)6

‘I am an angel’s teardrop’ says it. (7)7

‘So’? I say. (8)8

‘I didn’t get to play’ it answers. (9)9

‘Oh’ says I. I don’t want to let it go, it is my miracle. (10)10

‘Will you let me play’? It asks. (11)11

‘I don’t want to’ I admit. (12)12

‘Why’? It seems puzzled. (13)13

‘You’re my miracle.’ I answer. (14)14

‘Then whose mine’? asks the raindrop. I don’t answer. (15)15

‘Why do you need a miracle?’ asks it, finally. (16)16

‘Because I’m not perfect’ I say. (17)17

‘I'm not perfect’ says it. (18)18

'Yes you are' says I, taking offense. (19)19

'No I'm not, I can't hear you.' Says it. (20)20

‘But you’re talking to me.’ I say. (21)21

It shakes no. (22)22

‘You’re just like all the other raindrops, and they talked.’ I say. (22)23

‘I told you, I'm not a raindrop, I’m an angel’s teardrop.’ It says. (23)24

‘Oh.’ Says I, not understanding, yet beginning too, I touch my face. My eyes are swollen and puffy. (24)25

‘But…’ says I, ‘angels are perfect.’ (25)26

‘How would you know?' asks it. (26)27

‘But…’ I stare at my arms, the stub and the melted fingers. (27)28

‘But nothing, your perfect.’ Says the teardrop, my teardrop, I cry a holy river then and close my eyes. (28)29

BEEP (29)30

BEEP (30)31

I roll over and hit my alarm clock. I kick my sheets off and listen. Nothing. The clock reads 6:07. I run to my window, it is open. There is a storm, the wind has been blowing water into my room. I close my window. It is just a dream. (31)32


As I crawl back into bed, disappointed like, I happen to look to the floor, there lying open is a smudged drawing of a deformed hand. An angel’s hand, as I slide back under the covers I feel the first of many smiles slide over my face, I am perfect just as I am. And not just because a very wise teardrop once told me so, but because God made me so. Even so, I have to give some credit to ‘it’, after all it was an angel’s teardrop. (32) 33

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Oct 18th 0835