Lost
It was autumn. Gold and crimson leaves quivered on the limbs of branches. Above them dark clouds rumbled; in the distance a flash of lightning zapped the ground and vanished. People in the park eyed the ominous looking clouds and hurried down the street toward their cars. One person remained.
He was small, about four or five years old. He was dressed in a luminous yellow rain coat and waddled around in small black boots. A drop of rain fell down on his head, but he sat on one of the numerous benches, swinging his feet back and forth. Soon other drops peppered the ground, but he waited.
The rusty iron gate at the entrance clanged shut. Apparently they thought everyone had left. The little boy ran up to the fence and stared out. His hair was now wet and matted, and raindrops clung to his jacket before rolling off. He kicked the gate hard, only to jump around with a stubbed toe before slipping and falling on the ground.
Tires squealed and he could hear someone banging on the gate. He stumbled towards it blindly and felt someone grab his little hand. He was crying, but you couldn’t tell in the rain. He couldn’t see anything, but he heard someone desperately attacking the lock on the gate. It opened, and his mother picked him up in her arms.
“Charlie, I thought you were coming,” she said. “You were right behind me; where did you go?” He responded, “I couldn’t see where you went.”
It was raining, but he didn’t open his umbrella. He couldn’t tell where it was, or where anything else was. He was blind.
