Two Leaves
By me.
I wanted the rain. I pictured a sea in navy blue rolling above, a fragment of moon still haunting the day. I got instead: a cold, blank sky and a sun hiding somewhere behind it all. When I left the hospital room, I looked down at my lap, my pale green gown bunched on my thighs like so many wrinkles on an old, disused woman. My legs motionless beneath it. They have men and women and other survivors come and talk to you in track suits, or pin striped business suits, or linen pants and pink cashmere sweaters, to tell you about life after an accident.
“It’s been a blessing, really, losing my legs.” Or “Since my own accident I see everything differently. It filled a hole in my life I never knew was there.”
But her voice is raspy and it sounds like her holes have found their way into her speech instead. I’m supposed to visualize me walking again, or kicking a soccer ball. I’ve never played soccer. And my visions don’t include me with two working legs.
My first day back at school was the day it was supposed to rain. Mark the event, set the mood, ‘ambiance’ they call it. And I just saw that blank bright sky again, so bright it felt like an operating room, artificial, and full of stretches of cold stainless steel.
“Welcome back, we’ve missed you.”
“You look great. Do you want me to push you?”
Sometimes, I imagine my feet throbbing. They used to, if I curled up on my chair for too long. I picture the blood flowing, red streams flying down and down till they reach some artery in my calf, then further, till they pulse through my curled toes. I picture my toes wriggling in response. Those tiny unmoving bits yielding under this picture, and that blood flowing down my shrunken thighs and calves like a river.
“Don’t let yourself become angry, don’t let bitterness ruin your chances.”
Is it bitterness that’s ruining my chances?
Tuesday, I rolled myself down our new ramp out our front door onto that seamed grey concrete and down to our water front. I turned my cell phone off. The trees were turning color, losing bits of themselves for a cold winter. Lost, really, until spring. The cold metal warmed a bit under my hands, and I started to breathe in time with the squeaky turning of my wheels.
Squeak, breathe in, squeak, breathe out. I’m wearing my new corduroy brown pants, two sizes smaller than I’ve ever been. They quiver a bit as I roll stutteringly forward. Squeak, breathe, squeak, breathe. Two more blocks, and I’ve won myself a place on the waterfront; a small accomplishment, I suppose.
When I reach the water front, it’s not the huge sea that holds my eyes, all with its sparkling surface dancing over my retinas like some restless four-legged creature. It’s the trees. There among the pack, one tree has lost its leaves already, naked, spindly branches jutting out everywhere. Those tiny empty branches sitting unabashedly among all those still adorned in flaming colors, like some absurd arrangement in a photograph. I look so long and so hard my eyes begin to water and the tree blurs. It’s boundaries meld with the others, and when I blink, it crystallizes itself: there in the topmost branches, two burnt leaves still clinging to a branch. They look misplaced, or else like a hat or a crown on that diminished tree. I look down at my brown lap, two pale figures on the rims of my wheels. It’s cold here and I think it’s time to move on. I begin to ride home, squeaking and breathing, and warming that cold metal with my two small hands.
I wanted the rain. I pictured a sea in navy blue rolling above, a fragment of moon still haunting the day. I got instead: a cold, blank sky and a sun hiding somewhere behind it all. When I left the hospital room, I looked down at my lap, my pale green gown bunched on my thighs like so many wrinkles on an old, disused woman. My legs motionless beneath it. They have men and women and other survivors come and talk to you in track suits, or pin striped business suits, or linen pants and pink cashmere sweaters, to tell you about life after an accident.
“It’s been a blessing, really, losing my legs.” Or “Since my own accident I see everything differently. It filled a hole in my life I never knew was there.”
But her voice is raspy and it sounds like her holes have found their way into her speech instead. I’m supposed to visualize me walking again, or kicking a soccer ball. I’ve never played soccer. And my visions don’t include me with two working legs.
My first day back at school was the day it was supposed to rain. Mark the event, set the mood, ‘ambiance’ they call it. And I just saw that blank bright sky again, so bright it felt like an operating room, artificial, and full of stretches of cold stainless steel.
“Welcome back, we’ve missed you.”
“You look great. Do you want me to push you?”
Sometimes, I imagine my feet throbbing. They used to, if I curled up on my chair for too long. I picture the blood flowing, red streams flying down and down till they reach some artery in my calf, then further, till they pulse through my curled toes. I picture my toes wriggling in response. Those tiny unmoving bits yielding under this picture, and that blood flowing down my shrunken thighs and calves like a river.
“Don’t let yourself become angry, don’t let bitterness ruin your chances.”
Is it bitterness that’s ruining my chances?
Tuesday, I rolled myself down our new ramp out our front door onto that seamed grey concrete and down to our water front. I turned my cell phone off. The trees were turning color, losing bits of themselves for a cold winter. Lost, really, until spring. The cold metal warmed a bit under my hands, and I started to breathe in time with the squeaky turning of my wheels.
Squeak, breathe in, squeak, breathe out. I’m wearing my new corduroy brown pants, two sizes smaller than I’ve ever been. They quiver a bit as I roll stutteringly forward. Squeak, breathe, squeak, breathe. Two more blocks, and I’ve won myself a place on the waterfront; a small accomplishment, I suppose.
When I reach the water front, it’s not the huge sea that holds my eyes, all with its sparkling surface dancing over my retinas like some restless four-legged creature. It’s the trees. There among the pack, one tree has lost its leaves already, naked, spindly branches jutting out everywhere. Those tiny empty branches sitting unabashedly among all those still adorned in flaming colors, like some absurd arrangement in a photograph. I look so long and so hard my eyes begin to water and the tree blurs. It’s boundaries meld with the others, and when I blink, it crystallizes itself: there in the topmost branches, two burnt leaves still clinging to a branch. They look misplaced, or else like a hat or a crown on that diminished tree. I look down at my brown lap, two pale figures on the rims of my wheels. It’s cold here and I think it’s time to move on. I begin to ride home, squeaking and breathing, and warming that cold metal with my two small hands.
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