Diagnosis

As I slide open my window today, I see threads of raindrops, fleeing the pitchy mechanical clouds, pouring down, stitching the bruised muddy ground. Healing it. I see in it my fourteen year-old self slumped in the public bus seat, medical report lay lifelessly on my lap, eyes lost on the raining sky, fingers digging in the bouncy foam seat. Shredding it. Suddenly, a soft sniffing sound invades my ears, I turn to the woman sitting beside me, her moist eyes leaking precious tears unabated, lips cursing and pleading the divine to let the tragedy befall her, instead of me. Curing it. "Relax, mom," I said with a lump in my throat. "It just means I have to wear specs from now on for poor vision. It's no big deal."