Crunch! The relentlessly cinematic sound of the rubber padding of my winter boots crushing the wet accumulation. Clomp! The overly dramatic contact of that same rubber with the newly paved asphalt. It’s a nuisance as much as it’s a habit. But my neighbors don’t seem to be bothered by the weekly presence of an adolescent with his mother on Ocean Avenue. A Saturday afternoon walk is more than just a simple way for me to gain physical superiority. It is an entire plethora of emotion that entices my inhibitions when I first set foot on the cool tri-colored stones that is, my front porch. Further down the street, is the more enhanced enjoyment of building a relationship. Although this ideology might seem far too mature for my age, I still take pride in my willingness to spend time with an individual who I hardly get to see during the weekdays. Our route isn’t limited, but Ocean Avenue usually guides us down a hill before rising once more to the top of what seems like heaven. The exhausting terrain is what makes weekly walks like these exhilarating to the touch of molecules. The hills were monsters in actuality. Winter was like a blur, and the icy patches dotted below by slumped shoulders were becoming more imminent day by day.  

    Ding! The sound itself sent shock waves throughout my body as I felt equal amounts of dread when my blanket slowly drooped over my knees at the sudden movement that had surprised it. As I lunged for my phone on the paint-chipped counter, my eyes made contact with the window  causing me to flinch dramatically like a vampire feeling ultraviolet on its skin. As I cautiously allow my eyelids to lift and stare at the screen upon me, I’m rapidly but rambunctiously reminded of my obscured sleepiness when I notice the intense formation of creases below my pupils. On the notifications bar was what numerous residents of Maine dreadfully wake up to during the winter months. My stiff muscles commenced their screaming as I gingerly reached for my stuffed animals and tossed them on the tacky white carpet ahead of me. As I finally find the strength to sit up, I grab my inanimate friends and make my way downstairs where the usual welcome of key jingling is transitioned into a threat. In that instant, I knew deep down that my mother was reporting in Portland on a Saturday. It seems that the incoming ice storm was a subject of greater importance than family. But I can’t be this sincerely angry. In fact, Mom’s job was all that our income knew. 

“Drive carefully,” I reminded her as the creaking glass door struggled to open from the sheer amounts of frosty development. 

The virulent wildfire inside of me, was, of course, about the walk that we were supposed to relish today. If anything, I was more bothered about the lack of snow tires on my mother’s car than the lack of her presence. I gently closed the front door and walked as leisurely as a slug to the television room in the basement to catch up on the latest headlines. I flicked the switch at the top of the staircase and was allowed by heavy footsteps to cause the railing to come alive. The ugly checkered carpet drove each of my foot steps as I slumped on the couch and turned on the television. The main headlines included political drama, colder temperatures, and statistics about burglaries in Portland. Despite the mundane news stories, one in particular caught my inquisitive eye. The ice storm that threatened the coast of Maine was now heading inland at the speed of light. I switched off the television and darted up the stairs. My quads are driven by fright and determination as I made my way to the coat closet and viciously ripped my rough textured heavy coat from its hanger and threw it on. I seized the knob and yanked the front glass door open and tiptoed to the front porch before extending my arm out from under the roof and mentally praying that the ground was a dartboard without any darts. Fortune had turned its back on me once more. When I reentered the house, I used my snow boots to claw at the towel that was sitting in front of the entrance to get rid of as much white substance as possible. By the time I reached the dusty television for another dose of updates, my heart had already sunk to bedrock. 

    “Bagel is indeed a fuel for depression,” I thought to myself as I eagerly allowed my teeth to tear at the stale leftover raisin bagel that was left in the freezer for a year. 

Despite this, I must admit, my breakfast came from pure choice, not force. My level of hope and positive expression can best be described as, “I just poured my cup of milk all over the counter.” In other words, I was unable to find utter satisfaction or reasons why I should be happy with what I have. The pile-up that had already started to form on Portland’s major highway was a legitimate foe not to be reckoned with. With this I knew that percentages and wide perspectives can prevent a certain possibility that would be harrowing to comprehend. I slid my chair backwards with such vigor that I felt my sweltering palms pull apart from the side of the chair. I then seized the dishwasher knob before suctioning it open. The chipped pottery on the rim of my plate was as sharp as a glass shard as it cut deep into my finger when I placed the plate in position for automatic rinsing. I bent down and placed my hands on my knees and sighed. The light red stain that had already started to dye my pajamas in a primary color of horror was able to cap off a decently miserable morning. I stuck a bandage around my gory finger and allowed its fabric to sooth the platelets. As rapidly as the silence had come, it disappeared without delay. The ringtone emanating from the home phone was causing a racket up until the moment my ears suddenly turned sound proof when I saw who was calling. The cold surface of audio on the phone sent chills down my spine as I tried to avoid the unavoidable by shifting the volume almost to mute. I plugged in the phone and lifted my heavy skull and sobbed continuously as the status of my mother was unknown. Physical weakness had overcome whatever was left of my stone cold Saturday spirit. I attempted to pull my coat from the upstairs railing but failed. The coat sank like my heart and mocked my posture. I picked it up and slid the furry mess of insulation onto my slender torso. The blue winter boots that used to signify happiness and anticipation were now living up to its own color. I reached for my gray umbrella at the top shelf of the coat closet and dragged it outside. I popped the umbrella open and refused to pick up the rubber padding of my boots as I hunched over in the battering ice. 

    They made me wait for an eternity. The typical cheap hospital chairs were excellent compliments to the smell of decaying corpses. I grappled the sides of the plastic chair with impatience as I stared at the nearby analog clock for any sign of movement. The loose double doors creaked open as my mother arrived in a wheelchair. Reaction was almost instant when I embraced my mother with as much force as a crushing machine. The wool sweatshirt anchored the hug while the unfamiliar feeling of a tire brushing against my dedam jeans made me feel queasy inside. The wheelchair’s symbolism was acknowledged by those still unfamiliar. The overuse of my own biceps was expected to be felt in the morning after I started my mother down iron-striped ramps to the bottom floor. 

“What is the meaning of all of this?” I inquired as my frozen toes danced up the petite steps while they accompanied her up the sketchy ambulance interior. 

“Your mother had a gargantuan frontal impact on the highway when the heavy ice blurred her vision into the rear-end of a truck.” 

Even though I knew what the melodramatic interior of an ambulance appeared to look from a school field trip, my hands seemed to want to make contact with every single detail and aspect of the fascinating amounts of medical equipment and mental stress relievers. I was hesitant to do so however, as I knew that microbes were omnipresent and that a single scold from the medical officials could tatter my reputation among society no matter how demented it sounds. Once our destination had pulled up in front of the frosted window, I scrubbed my two hands together like flint and steel in order to generate as much frictional energy as possible as if to prepare for the inevitable. As my hands were rapidly warmed up, I seized the opportunity to help the hospital officials by grasping the cool metal handle and attempting to yank it with such force and precision that it accurately represented a scene from theatre. I then proceeded to delicately place my palms on the squishy cushion of the wheel chair and glide my mother with caution up the driveway. The red glare of the house provided me with nothing but hope and confidence as I gently swerved my rather relaxed mother past patches of black ice on the cracked asphalt. As I set foot in the house, the sudden rush of warm radiation from the air conditioning and gas fireplace was felt so quickly that I could totally have imagined the rush of air blowing out hair towards the ceiling. When the words smacked me square in the face, I added a wholloping of my own as my foot composition halted and my eyes widened despite my sleep deprivation. How could I have possibly forgotten the main basis, that is my Saturday? I thought to myself while also ridiculing it. 

“What about the walks?” I found myself suddenly asking out of thin air. My mom, considerably startled by this sudden inquiry, immediately rolled her shoulders on the fabric support and lifted her head as if to ask guidance from an omnipotent force. 

“Perhaps you could walk by yourself.” “Or even better, you could walk outside while we interact on a call.” My mother reiterated. At that moment, I knew it was best to leave my mother alone with her thoughts. I’m no psychologist, but my main prediction would be that she wasn’t given enough time to assimilate the situation completely. My frigid feet slid against the rough insulation when I bent down and forced both of my winter boots off the shelter of my ankles. I unzipped my jacket with care and hung it on the upstairs railing knowing that I would need its warmth later. My breathing and heart rate were noticed by none other than me when my cheeks turned red. 

    “Did you also have an accident?” My mother asked when she finally noticed the bandage on my finger after lunch. 

“Yeah, what a wreck.” I joked. I pulled the tap on the sink and allowed the water to sprinkle its fluoride and natural abilities all over the dirty plates before placing the plates on the rack in the dishwater and grabbing the knob to click it closed. Sometimes I wish that simple things in life are always there in order to help overcome tragedy or misfortune. Unfortunately, life must go on, and a solution was not of the faintest interest as it felt as if my brain was as numb as my skin when I had suffered from severe hypothermia last winter. The ice storm had already started to slow by the time I arrived at the hospital earlier this morning, its daunting arrival was much more brief than expected. Regardless of the storm’s path and destruction, the afternoon sun already started to peer menacingly over the brick chimney as a warning of what was yet to come in a few seconds' time. I struded over to the living room window and pressed my cherry-red palms against the surprisingly cold double paned window. It was unavoidable now, my chest had already started to feel lively with utter amounts of anxiety. 

“I’m going.” I informed my mom. 

“Do you have your phone?” 

“Yep.” 

“Watch for cars.”

“Of course.” 

“And ice.”

 “Indeed.” When I shut the door, I allowed its lock to click the entrance framing to use audio to help my mom identify literal departure. One foot in front of the other. That was all it took. Don’t allow the outside forces to affect your right to feel sad and overwhelmed. This feeling had stuck to me like epoxi for such an extended time that it didn’t allow my boots to pressure snow and ice while discovering the ever-important mystery as to how deep patches of snow can be. Much like the rubber padding of the boots, the world seemed to cave in at that moment because there was a sense of emptiness that was never felt before. My posture and overall body language could have interpreted the events of the past few hours in a few nimble seconds. 

“So how is school?” My mother abruptly asked. My neck had already cracked as I adjusted my numb spine to my mother’s attitude when Danny, my beloved neighbor, waved to me. 

“Salutations my friend!” He exclaimed enthusiastically. 

“Hi.” I responded in a gray-textured voice. Danny’s gray poodle, Ren, suddenly was unleashed and decided to charge my face. Lukewarm slobber and dog saliva started to drip over my nose as the enzymes were somehow able to heat my body temperature a single degree higher than before. Ren’s nails dug into my coat when he decided to stand on his hind legs and scratch his paws against the tar on the road. 

“My sincere apologies Aiden, it seems that the poodle has found someone in need of help.” 

“What makes you say that?” I responded with eagerness. 

“The tone of your voice tells me that you are going through some decently tough times.” The tear that was forming in my eye had already slid down my cheek. 

“What’s going on Aiden?” 

“My mother is currently in a wheelchair after she temporarily broke her two legs in a car accident in Portland.” I had continued to say as the uncontrollable amount of sniffles was starting to overpower my words. 

“I'm aware of your weekly exercise routine with your mother, but you need to put things into perspective Aiden, will this affect you in the future?” Instead of using verbal dialect, I proceeded to blankly stare at Danny for a few seconds before he understood that since tough questions like those seemed impossible to visualize, I was craving nothing more than a solution to a seemingly unbearable scenario. 

“I have an idea.” Danny explained. 

“What if we tried to replicate the concept revolving snow tires to create a similar device for the tires on your mom’s wheelchair?” Since I could pretty much already envision the sheer amounts of wheel turning in Danny’s mind, I decided that despite the chances, it was worth a try. 

    As the liquified sound of the window got louder, I rushed over to the main entrance and swung the door for the mechanic. By the time Danny had partially given my mom a heart attack in her office, I nearly chuckled with joy as I knew that Danny’s professionalism could help drive this project forward. As I keenly observed Danny’s years of experience all at once, he demonstrated not only an endless amount of perseverance, but also a ton of patience. The sound of clanking metal and zipping wires became the signature sound track of that afternoon’s project. Essentially, Danny’s plan was to tie a multitude of waxed wires around both rubbery tires on the wheelchair to replicate the intertwined chains on cars. Danny’s hand movements were as graceful as that of a swan as he patiently placed one tool down and picked up another. Consistency was key. And with every single knot he tied, Danny seemingly made a direct copy of the other. The shiny stainless wires laid down on the orange-brown hardwood floors were ready to be picked and manipulated with. 

“All finished.” Danny sighed as he tied the last bit of metal to the rubbery pattern. 

“I don’t know where I would be without you.” I replied in relief. As my mom and I escorted Danny over to the front, I soon started to realize that even the world is conflicted with itself sometimes. As the front glass door creaked with anger once more, the tires found their way of pace on Ocean Avenue. The hazardous conditions and the mountainous terrain on the street didn’t seem to stop me from having the winter walk of my life. My lack of athletic ability however, resulted in numerous grunts up the hill. Regardless, I think it is secure to state that I have found my own personal miracle of movement.