If my feet could fly

I had a dream last night where I was flying, not in the sky but down the stairs. Effortlessly, I lightly touch each step on my way down and I could move each foot in quick succession. I no longer dream of wild sexual situations anymore but I covet my dreams of moving as I used to again. Sad I know but par for my age and that time in my life. A change is going to come no matter what we do, for some it will come with grace and wit. For some it will come with anger and resentment, take your pick. In the end it will come with a certain resignation and with diminished mobility. But until then we can always dream before our lives are one endless dream.

I often dream of the way thing were before the change that overcame me. I rarely ran but I think back on the way I moved and talked and how I took that for granted. I used to take great pride in running up stairs two at a time. My favorite walk was downtown along the Riverwalk and a grand staircase that was some twenty to thirty feet high. I almost loose my breath on the way up but it was a thrill for me to conquer. Every once in a while a person would be sitting at the top and I’d say hello with my last breath and continue on my way. Not a great feat but none the less I got something out of it. Now I’m lucky to be able to walk up the same flight of stairs without tripping over my feet or the stairs themselves.

In reality I’m lucky to be moving as well as I am or to even walk at all. When I spent that four weeks in a wheelchair I’d have given anything to be able to walk even to the bathroom let alone around the hospital. It must be the human condition to always concentrate on that we can’t do rather than on the things we can. When I recall that time in my life I wonder how I ever managed to overcome my paralysis. How did I find the strength to do the things I needed to find my way back. Because I had to is the short answer, I simply had no other option. Life it seems is for the living and living well is the best option, I don’t know about revenge.

Now that I’m entering that age where elder-speak happens and with people hold the doors for me it’s hard to understand that I’m reaching that age. I still think young and I’m not beyond acting childish that’s for sure. These lovely young women at Starbucks call me sweetie and even bring my coffee to me. I thank them very much and regret that I’m no longer a threat to them, I no longer count except as the nice old guy who reads books and borrows the newspaper. There was a time..., but now I can only look at them and remember.