The Sidewalk

​The sidewalk is cracked. Imperfect,
even in its first few days.
Oh, and printed mischievously
with the paws of our cat.

It needed to be made.
The step was becoming
too great for his wheelchair.
Thankful we already had a ramp
to the front door.

But the step.

So our landlord mixed and formed
the cement. An interesting slope
met the carport floor and the
edge of the house.
But slope, blend and form, he did.
And the cat, of course,
offering her influence.

She was perfect for the part
as she was born behind our home;
a litter of ferals caught
and domesticated.
She is the only of the four
that we still have.

The bulky electric wheelchair
sits empty in the carport, unused
for almost three years now.

The sidewalk, the only strip of
anything on our property that
could hold such a name,
reminds us of the support
we needed and received
during those critical months.
​
From upright muscular strength,
to using the railing on weakening legs,
to being pushed in a thrift-store wheelchair,
to surrendered navigation in the
custom-fit contraption that held
every limb in place,
my husband - once a carpenter
and contractor - should have
been the one to create that
sidewalk to our house.

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