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Authors: Joseph Pittman
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wooden steps, cradled himself, fought back tears. He thought of Janey, her trembling lips and all that she’d heard. She shouldn’t be alone, not now. Except she was, alone and lonely and afraid.
Brian was afraid, too, and silently sent a wish on the wind, hoping it was carried north, where it would be heard by a woman lying silently in a hospital bed. Annie had to reawaken, and Janey needed to see her. First, though, he had to find the little girl.
“Janey,” he murmured to himself. “Where are you?”
For the first time since the accident, Brian realized the seriousness of the situation. Annie could die, and if she did, God, how would Janey survive another devastating loss? Who would be there for Janey?
PART TWO
A PRIL
F OUR
Y ou hear about the unparalleled beauty of the autumnal landscape in upstate New York and New England, and like thousands of New Yorkers, people make the trek to catch the fall foliage in all its splendor. But spring comes a close second in its allure, with trees blooming after the harsh winter weather and birds chirping in delight of the approaching warmth of summer. And today was a perfect spring day and a perfect day for driving. The road was mine and mine alone.
As my car crested the green hills somewhere along one of the Hudson River Valley’s rural routes, an unexpected and wondrous image caught my eye, and temporarily I lost the way of the road. As my car’s tires scrabbled against the gravel on the road’s shoulder, I pulled the wheel to the left and corrected my aim down this tiny stretch of seemingly forgotten highway. But my eye wandered again, darting back and forth from object to road, until finally I caught a beautiful sight from the corner of my eye. I knew I had to back up, to see it up close. So I pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car, where a clean burst of air filled my lungs. I sighed with contentment, a not unfamiliar feeling these days.
For the past six weeks I’d found myself relaxing and opening up. I would smile often and wide while traveling the countryside, caring little where the road went, just so long as I encountered more road and more still, smooth black pavement that urged me forward. Thoughts of my former life were behind me, dust along the hundreds of miles of road I’d already traversed. Days slipped by, then weeks, as road after road blurred, the landscape of wild growing grass and giant trees gently waving in the breeze now so familiar that it no longer caught my attention. But now, here before me, was truly something to see, something unique.
Rising up from the ground before me, shooting what seemed to be hundreds of feet into the air, was a solitary and majestic windmill, its four latticelike sails slowly turning in the light wind. Like the kind found dotting the landscape of foreign countries in a children’s fairy tale, it was an arresting vision that awakened my imagination. I felt as though I’d been transported into a new time and place, where innocence and beauty are cherished. I had no idea why, but I had to see the windmill up close, and so my feet moved me forward, across the two-lane road and up into the high grass of the adjacent field.
The windmill was about two hundred feet from me, the only thing visible on this swath of land, its four sails like a Ferris wheel, touching near to the ground, only to spin upward to the waiting sky. It was set against an azure backdrop, making me feel as though I were staring into a giant postcard. The world I’d known just moments ago seemed to fade right around me, leaving me with the windmill and nothing else. Was this reality? How often do you see such a grand thing?
I started to move a bit closer, and that was when someone else joined me in my picture-perfect world. From over a distant hill came a small child, her long blond hair trailing behind her fast-moving body. Her arms were outstretched, as though she were embracing the wind, waiting for it to catch her and lift
Brian was afraid, too, and silently sent a wish on the wind, hoping it was carried north, where it would be heard by a woman lying silently in a hospital bed. Annie had to reawaken, and Janey needed to see her. First, though, he had to find the little girl.
“Janey,” he murmured to himself. “Where are you?”
For the first time since the accident, Brian realized the seriousness of the situation. Annie could die, and if she did, God, how would Janey survive another devastating loss? Who would be there for Janey?
PART TWO
A PRIL
F OUR
Y ou hear about the unparalleled beauty of the autumnal landscape in upstate New York and New England, and like thousands of New Yorkers, people make the trek to catch the fall foliage in all its splendor. But spring comes a close second in its allure, with trees blooming after the harsh winter weather and birds chirping in delight of the approaching warmth of summer. And today was a perfect spring day and a perfect day for driving. The road was mine and mine alone.
As my car crested the green hills somewhere along one of the Hudson River Valley’s rural routes, an unexpected and wondrous image caught my eye, and temporarily I lost the way of the road. As my car’s tires scrabbled against the gravel on the road’s shoulder, I pulled the wheel to the left and corrected my aim down this tiny stretch of seemingly forgotten highway. But my eye wandered again, darting back and forth from object to road, until finally I caught a beautiful sight from the corner of my eye. I knew I had to back up, to see it up close. So I pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car, where a clean burst of air filled my lungs. I sighed with contentment, a not unfamiliar feeling these days.
For the past six weeks I’d found myself relaxing and opening up. I would smile often and wide while traveling the countryside, caring little where the road went, just so long as I encountered more road and more still, smooth black pavement that urged me forward. Thoughts of my former life were behind me, dust along the hundreds of miles of road I’d already traversed. Days slipped by, then weeks, as road after road blurred, the landscape of wild growing grass and giant trees gently waving in the breeze now so familiar that it no longer caught my attention. But now, here before me, was truly something to see, something unique.
Rising up from the ground before me, shooting what seemed to be hundreds of feet into the air, was a solitary and majestic windmill, its four latticelike sails slowly turning in the light wind. Like the kind found dotting the landscape of foreign countries in a children’s fairy tale, it was an arresting vision that awakened my imagination. I felt as though I’d been transported into a new time and place, where innocence and beauty are cherished. I had no idea why, but I had to see the windmill up close, and so my feet moved me forward, across the two-lane road and up into the high grass of the adjacent field.
The windmill was about two hundred feet from me, the only thing visible on this swath of land, its four sails like a Ferris wheel, touching near to the ground, only to spin upward to the waiting sky. It was set against an azure backdrop, making me feel as though I were staring into a giant postcard. The world I’d known just moments ago seemed to fade right around me, leaving me with the windmill and nothing else. Was this reality? How often do you see such a grand thing?
I started to move a bit closer, and that was when someone else joined me in my picture-perfect world. From over a distant hill came a small child, her long blond hair trailing behind her fast-moving body. Her arms were outstretched, as though she were embracing the wind, waiting for it to catch her and lift
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