kaymlink

Super Shorts – To Rebuild

In Fiction, Mostly True, Writing on October 12, 2015 at 8:42 pm

She stood silently at the edge of the porch, elbows resting on the railing with camcorder in hand.  She looked at me when I stepped up next to her, only for a second before returning her eyes to the yard.  Her expression was unreadable.

I stared at the patch of cut grass, no bigger than space enough for a child’s playhouse.  The lawnmower droned on and I watched him.  The determination on his face and in his movements was unmatchable.  He grabbed hold of the handle, prepping himself, and gave a hard push with one arm.  The other arm lay on the arm rest of his chair, his hand delicately and precisely moving the small joystick to put him in motion.  Repositioning, another shove, rolling his wheelchair forward a few more inches, navigating around the swing set that sat rusting from 2 years of no use while they had been gone.

It was hard to speak, to break the silence of being mesmerized by his tedious and obviously tiring work.  But I did.  “He mowed this patch?”

She hit a button on the camcorder and set it on the railing in front of her, then nodded.  “First time he’s tried doing this since the accident.”

“Yeah…”

“He’s been out here over an hour.  He won’t let me do it.”

“Sounds about right…”

“He wanted to try.  He found a way to do it.  Halfway through that section he yelled for me to bring the camera out.  He wanted it on tape.”

I turned my gaze back to him.  A task – a chore even – that most dread.  A chore that 2 years ago took him less than an hour to fully complete.  A task that meant nothing when he walked on 2 legs, when his arms were sculpted from weight lifting and didn’t have muscle damage, when his body hadn’t been through more major surgeries than I could remember.  I wanted to cry – for her almost losing the love of her life and seeing his constant struggles, for him losing the future he imagined for himself because of one tiny second and a vehicle malfunction. But then I looked back at her and she was smiling, beaming even. 

I looked back at him.  Sweating, flushed, concentrating so hard, struggling but not giving up – and proud.  Proud, and so very happy.  I watched him – repositioning, pushing, rolling, guiding, bumping the swings, hitting the shed slightly, shaking his arm out to loosen his tired muscles, smiling, singing, waving to the porch, presenting his mowed patches to us with a sweep of his arm. Rebuilding.

Advertisements

Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Ordinary Adventures

Everyday journeys of a one of a kind girl.

One Day at a Time

The world is a confusing place, these are just my musings on it.

The Girl

enjoying whatever life has to offer...

whatamitodo

The ultimate advice site

%d bloggers like this: