Ramp

Two friendly carpenters took down the ramp the day before. The ramp had been built by friends four years prior, just days after our accident. We’d ridden our wheelchairs onto it, limped our way up and down its gentle slop—first with walkers, then canes, then on our own two legs, hand grasping a railing for support. For the last few years, Avery used it for his skateboard, his scooter. The dogs galumphed up and down its length. So you can't blame me if I watched the men pull down the wooden structure with barely suppressed glee, snapping pictures and cracking jokes. “The dawn of a new day,” I nearly shouted to them as they drove off that evening. Right away, I put a chair up against the front door so no one would open it by mistake and get hurt. It was a two-foot drop onto the hard-packed dirt with two big holes for the new staircase supports. The next morning I opened the door to see again an entrance free of such dark and haunting memories. We’d truly turned over a new leaf, I told myself. It wasn’t an hour later, the dogs itching for a walk, that I walked up to the door, busy with the leashes, attaching them to collars. Crouched there, eager to get out into the sunny day, I pushed the chair out of the way, opened the door and…fell the two feet to the ground: body turning in the air, arms out to brace, one slipping down into a foundation hole. The dogs jumped down after me, sniffing at my face in confusion. What have I just done? I stood up slowly, checking my body for possible breaks, cuts, gashes. My left arm was already aching at the wrist. My whole left side was sore. But no real blood to speak of, no broken bones. I’d missed hitting my head on a cement block by a few inches, narrowly avoided a big rock. I dusted myself off and picked up the leashes and limped my way out onto the road. By the time I got back to the house, I was stiff and sore. I had to slide my body up into the entranceway then maneuver it awkwardly over the threshold.