Wheelchair
You reminded me of Walt Whitmans prose
Of the late night whispers, and the way Gin smells
You were under the impression you didn’t need help
And as a notion of respect, I let you not ask for it -
You said, “All I need is a wheelchair, and then I’ll be fine”
And I looked at your yellowing eyes, and trembling limbs
And I thought, that’s what you needed to be true.
So, I made a post and I found you a wheelchair
Within the hour of our police officer and ambulance refusal
I walked you to your car, and helped you get in
You assured me that you were okay to drive home
And we made the plan to see each other in the morning.
I had your wheelchair waiting, I cleaned it up, and had it ready
But you didn’t show up.
I had a bar to open, so I mopped - and wondered
I cleaned floor mats - and worried
I cleaned garbage cans - and waited
I talked shit with a beer delivery driver - and hoped
I was in the middle of stocking new items, and the phone rang
It was your sister to tell me you were in the hospital
She found you that morning on the floor, you couldn’t get up alone,
You didn’t have your wheelchair .
She had no news at the moment and would call me back.
I wondered if you had that wheelchair if you would have been on the floor,
If you had that wheelchair, would you have been stuck for who knows how long
If you had that damn wheelchair, would I have seen you that morning.
The next few days were filled with hope, sadness, acceptance, and goodbyes.
I’m lucky I got to see you before you went.
I’m happy I got to hold your hand and say goodbye,
I walked out of that hospice building and made it to my car before the breakdown.
I sat there trying to get my shit together for a bit before starting the engine.
I watched families enter and exit,
Knowing they are feeling what I was except worse.
You weren’t my Grandpa, or my Dad,
You were more like my grumpy Uncle that I was assigned to take care of.
Men like you aren’t supposed to have an expiration date,
You’re made of old steel, and you may bend, and you may rust,
But you don’t break.
That wheelchair is still sitting in my storage room.
I think all the staff are afraid to touch it,
Shit, I’m afraid to touch it.
I know you asked for a wheelchair,
But I think you were asking for me to let go.
You weren’t going to take the wheelchair,
You were ready to leave. You were ready to clock out.
Everyone keeps saying, “Sorry to hear about your cleaning guy”,
And I scoff every time, because you weren’t some cleaning guy.
You were the only thing in my thing that was a constant.
You were there every single day.
You never left, you were never late, and
It’s been 7 days, but it feels like a blur -
I keep waiting to pull in and see your busted red car,
Hear about what closing staff did (when it was me who closed),
Ready to listen to what crazy shit another drunk person did,
What I should do next,
Why I shouldn’t do this, or that.
Life is very short, and I’m still not afraid of that,
Often days, I welcome it,
But your position in my life wasn’t over yet,
And I’ll be carrying a weight of sadness for a while.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with this wheelchair, Butch?
