by Rex Emerson Jackson
It was the most beautiful puddle I had ever seen. Almost
completely round, gorgeously muddy, and the water got darker near the centre of
the puddle, indicating how gloriously deep it went. I couldn’t resist. My
purple rain boots were made for this day. Slowly, I dipped a toe in the edge of
the puddle. The water washed over my boot and a smile spread across my face. I
stood fascinated for a moment by the glinting of the sun off of the water,
watching the water wash over my boot until the purple disappeared beneath the
churning, muddy surface. Mesmerized, I stepped in a little further. The water
washed up to my ankles and my feet vanished completely. The silty water swirled
seductively, and I shifted my weight back and forth as I watched the patterns
flow and ebb. I was completely engrossed until a voice jolted me out of my
reverie.
“Simon, what are you doing in there?” I wrinkled my nose with
uncertainty. I was not Simon. They were mistaking me for someone else. As I
raised my head and brushed my gaze over the owner of the voice and her friends,
I saw several things on their faces. I am not good at reading faces, but to me
it seemed like they were confused, which was soon replaced with contempt and
fear. “Um, never mind.” The girl stammered out, and the group of them left
quickly. I blushed and ducked my face. I
knew how the kids looked at me. I was the weird kid, the one who was fascinated
by patterns and light, the one who was slow to respond to verbal prompts but
could read well beyond his grade level. I was the kid who had no friends, who
couldn’t exchange daily pleasantries but often went on long monologues about
rabbits or tornadoes. I felt like a square peg being hammered painfully into a
round hole. That day, as the girls scampered away muttering about “That weird
kid again”, I watched the water pool over my feet as if I could disappear
completely into the puddle. Surely that sparkling, dancing existence would be
better than this sharp, loud world that I didn’t really fit into.
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