Counting The Days You Loved Me

Summary

I was five years old the first time I ever spoke. I pointed at the little girl living across the street, hovered my small finger right above her head, and whispered a single number.

"Two."

My parents exchanged puzzled, uneasy smiles, passing it off as child's play.

Two days later, she lost control of her skateboard at the intersection and was struck by an oncoming sedan.

They told themselves it was a horrifying coincidence.

A few months later, Grandma suffered a catastrophic stroke. The doctors at the hospital pulled my parents into the hallway, their voices hushed and grim.