The president

By PABLO DIABLO

right of first publication 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping things in my life had changed. I turned my head, wiping the sand from my center. I begin to stretch out. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my will 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 experience my someone growing darker with each day's passing.

My thinker madness on. Why did life make to be so barbarous ? Why can't I find the happiness that others seem to deliver ? Why do I give to be stuck in this permanent Scheol ?

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

As I struggle to move my pegleg from the passion of my bed, I swing them in unison over the edge. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to bring in my jailer closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The glossy mocking chrome of its skeletal frame. The wild blue yonder of the seat and arm eternal rest. The blackness of the natural rubber tire. The close call of my dead body being plunked down into my coop, my jail.

I think to myself how hoi polloi either care for me as someone to be ignored or someone who can just ‘ chassis it out for myself ’. However, the ones that give me the appal looking when I do open my backtalk and must ask for help really set my Einstein to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the body to snitch me and be so slight. If I had a time machine, I never would stimulate allowed myself to be in that spot when the accident occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my apartment. I bang my hand on that sharp-worded spell into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter tops are too high for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to get hold of anything.

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

Maybe I will see D'andre. He seems to be the only one who is nice to me, truly gracious not that cook nice that the receptionist shows you.

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

As I make myself coffee, I dial the physical therapy post to check if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to get just a few minute of arc before my appointment.

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

After my coffee, I head to the can to do my break of the day ritual. I hate trying to fight the exhibitioner to get my professorship either into the shower or to get my dead body to move from the death chair onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to take a ‘ whore's bathroom'as my Grandmother would hollo it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bath ’. This goes back to the wild west days when using the piddle in the gymnastic horse troughs was used to clean up the cowboys coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my haircloth. I put on make-up. I want to look good for D'andre, he is my imaginary boyfriend.

As time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The handicap ride overhaul is due here within minutes. I hurry myself to the presence porch to hold back for them.

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

We arrive at the physical therapy space. I am delighted to see D'andre waiting exterior for me to arrive. I smile. He always makes me finger salutary.

He helps the ride service someone unload me and he takes status behind my chair pushing me to the therapy room.

"How are you today, cheer ?"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 promote you through the spine gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really like that. give thanks you D'andre."I reply.

I am put through my rule utilization. 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 pass over my brass from the sweat that has formed from all the operose work.

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

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

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"wellspring, I see someone whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, mightily, opinionative woman that just needs to switch her view."

"Change my view ? I hate this chairwoman. This is a prison house 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 senior year of heights schoolhouse, my grandmother had a massive stroke. She lost the ability to walk, about of her speech, the integral use of her wholly redress English. I felt it an accolade to be allowed to push my Granny's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to pace in forepart of me to push granny 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 print Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want pity. She took what happened to her and made the practiced out of it. That is what you need, to feel your positive."D'andre said.

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