Crippled

“The last time I saw you, you were a cripple.” This from the mouth of an old friend, wife of a writing pal. She was right about not seeing each other for some time—going on four years—but it was the “cripple” part that turned Keith’s head, who looked over from his conversation behind the conference table with trademark raised eyebrow. What have you done now? Let’s just say I burned some bridges. Or that it wouldn’t be the first time someone from that period in my life felt they could take verbal swipes. Later, at the reception, she seemed open, friendly even. Had she just been stating what she saw as the plain truth? “We weren’t sure you were going to get out of it,” she said. Get out of what? The rut I was in or the wheelchair? “Here I am,” I said, meaning for better or for worse, like it or not. “You were like family,” my pal said when I confided how much their hospitality had meant to me back then. Past tense. The last time I saw you…Then I turned into the arms of an old student—a “kindred spirit,” she said—genuine worry on her face, with forward facing questions, and so, thankfully, walked confidently into those.