Getting Back on My Feet
In our walker strolls, me with an orange safety belt wrapped around my waist, Paul clutching it tight, we stop so I can exercise on a staircase, between the parallel bars, or just to rest in an alcove across from the elevator lobby, check my vitals, and talk. About the book he’s reading — his excitement when Arthur first meets Merlin. About the way writing my poetry helps me confront my trauma. About his love of the woods — the beauty of the moon skimming through winter branches — or taking his three daughters on a camping trip. About the time he and his wife drove...
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