The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

copyright 2018

As I woke this morn, I was hoping things in my life-time had changed. I turned my oral sex, wiping the sand from my eyes. I begin to extend. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my lead and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

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

My mind rages on. Why did animation throw to be so vicious ? Why can't I find the happiness that others seem to have ? Why do I have got to be stuck in this permanent hell ?

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

As I struggle to move my branch from the fondness of my bed, I swing them in unison over the edge. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to take my gaoler closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The shiny mocking chrome of its frame. The blue of the seat and arm rests. The total darkness of the rubber tires. The squeak of my body being plunked down into my John Cage, my jail.

I think to myself how mass either regale me as someone to be ignored or somebody who can just ‘ number it out for myself ’. However, the ones that give me the horrified look when I do open my sass and must ask for assistant really set my Einstein to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the physical structure to betray me and be so tenuous. If I had a clip machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that stead when the fortuity occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my apartment. I bang my hand on that sharp number into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter big top are too high for me. I hate that I must use that grabber twist to arrive at anything.

Today is more of what I dread. Another strong-arm therapy appointment.

Maybe I will see D'andre. He seems to be the only one who is nice to me, truly skillful not that talk through one's hat courteous that the receptionist shows you.

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

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

I call the ‘ telephone dial a Ride'service to schedule them to follow get me about 10am.

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

I decide to engage a ‘ harlot's bath'as my grannie would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bath ’. This goes back to the wild W days when using the water in the horse trough was used to scavenge up the rodeo rider coming off the trail.

I brush my dentition. I comb my hair. I put on makeup. I want to look practiced for D'andre, he is my imaginary boyfriend.

As clip progresses, I see it's almost 10. The handicap ride divine service is due here within min. I hurry myself to the front man porch to wait for them.

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

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

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

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

"Better 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 backward gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really wish that. Thank you D'andre."I reply.

I am put through my formula exercises. I don't believe that any of this is helping, not one shit 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 glad to see D'andre waiting for me.

He hands me a towel, so I may pass over my face from the sweat that has formed from all the hard work.

He takes ascendancy of my chair, moving me outside of the therapy building into their flower garden.

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

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"well, I see someone whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, powerful, opinionative woman that just needs to change her view."

"modification my prospect ? 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 schooling, my Granny had a monumental stroke. She lost the power to walk, most of her spoken communication, the full use of her whole right side. I felt it an laurels to be allowed to push my Granny's wheelchair around. I would reason with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to ill-use in presence of me to push nan in her chair. And do you know what she called her chair ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her stroke, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a roman letters Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want pity. She took what happened to her and made the good out of it. That is what you need, to find your positive."D'andre said.

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