The Wheelchair

The wheel chair caught on the gravel.  I pushed harder.  Her eyes bore into my back.  When I reached the sidewalk at the end of the driveway, the front door slammed behind me.  The wheels moved smoothly along the cement.  

In the spring, I mailed a bouquet of hand made origami flowers from Indian Creek.  In the summer, I left the base of Half Dome to scream her name when she graduated UC Santa Cruz.  In the fall, we kissed.  Then she ignored me. 

I broke my body in the winter, falling in Joshua Tree.  She screamed when she heard the news. From my hospital bed, I asked her what she wanted. She said "friend."  I only heard "end."  I stayed with her while I learned to walk again.  When I left, we kissed again, with more passion. 

For a moment, it was good.  Then I wanted more.  I wanted love in return. She was hesitant.  It crushed me.  Why was I doing this to myself? 

I left the house without talking to her.  I walked down the sidewalk, leaning heavily on the wheelchair, trying to mask my limp.