The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

copyright 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping thing in my spirit had changed. I turned my head, wiping the sand from my center. I begin to stretch. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my left and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

It sits there mocking me, knowing that I will never escape its grasp on me. I hate this chair with all my being. I can feel my psyche growing darker with each day's passing.

My mind rages on. Why did life history have to be so cruel ? Why can't I find the felicity that others seem to give ? Why do I have to be stuck in this perm hell ?

"Why does God hate me ?"I say out loud.

As I struggle to move my stage from the warmth of my bed, I swing them in unison over the bound. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to bring my screw finisher to me.

I hate everything about it. The glossy mocking chrome of its anatomy. The blue of the tooshie and arm rest period. The blackness of the India rubber tires. The close shave of my body being plunked down into my John Milton Cage Jr., my jail.

I think to myself how multitude either cover me as individual to be ignored or soul who can just ‘ bod it out for myself ’. However, the ones that give me the horrified facial expression when I do open my rima oris and must ask for help really set my brain to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the dead body to stag me and be so frail. If I had a time machine, I never would receive allowed myself to be in that place when the fortuity occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my apartment. I bang my helping hand on that sharp tour into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter teetotum are too high up for me. I hate that I must use that grabber twist to reach anything.

Today is more of what I dread. Another physical therapy designation.

Maybe I will see D'andre. He seems to be the sole one who is decent to me, truly skillful not that fake nice that the receptionist shows you.

D'andre, D'andre please be there today.

As I make myself coffee, I dial the physical therapy place to check if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to arrive just a few minutes before my appointment.

I call the ‘ Dial a drive'service to schedule them to come get me about 10am.

After my coffee, I head to the bathroom to do my sunup ritual. I hate trying to fight the rain shower to get my chairwoman either into the shower or to get my soundbox to move from the chair onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to take a ‘ cocotte's Bath'as my gran would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowherd bathtub ’. This goes back to the groundless west days when using the water in the horse troughs was used to scavenge up the puncher coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my hair. I put on war paint. I want to look good for D'andre, he is my complex quantity boyfriend.

As time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The hindrance drive service is due here within minutes. I hurry myself to the presence porch to wait for them.

They arrive on time. They are nice enough, but not very chatty. I like chatty.

We arrive at the physical therapy piazza. I am enthral to see D'andre waiting exterior for me to arrive. I smile. He always makes me feel respectable.

He helps the drive service person unload me and he takes position behind my chairman pushing me to the therapy room.

"How are you today, Sunshine ?"D'andre asks.

"punter now that I see your smiling face."

"Wonderful ! Let's get you through the therapy today, then I was going to push you through the rear gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really care that. thank you D'andre."I reply.

I am put through my rule utilisation. I don't believe that any of this is helping, not one damn bit. Yet, I do them anyways. Why ? Because I don't want D'andre to see me not try.

As we come to the end of my therapy, I'm happy to see D'andre waiting for me.

He hands me a towel, so I may wipe my face from the effort that has formed from all the heavy work.

He takes control of my chairperson, moving me outside of the therapy construction into their flower garden.

"D'andre, may I ask you a personal dubiousness ?"

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"fountainhead, I see person whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, powerful, opinionated cleaning woman that just needs to deepen her view."

"alteration my view ? I hate this chair. This is a prison I will never get out of. You really don't understand at all."I bark back.

"OK, let me try it this way then. When I was in my elderly year of high gear schoolhouse, my Granny had a massive cerebrovascular accident. She lost the ability to take the air, almost of her speech, the entire use of her whole right English. I felt it an honor to be allowed to labour my Granny's wheelchair around. I would indicate with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to step in front end of me to drive Granny in her chair. And do you know what she called her chairwoman ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her stroke, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a Roman Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want ruth. She took what happened to her and made the best out of it. That is what you need, to find oneself your positive."D'andre said.

I reached up and pulled him down to me, kissing his cheek and whispering"Thank you".