I loved my life.

Past tense.

I still remember that wonderful old sun, beaming down on Jen and me that summer day, when nothing was without our grasp, and laughter echoed in the AIR. A typical day in the Sunshine State.

Sunday, August 7.

We were in charge of our world, so sure of it.

We hopped on our bikes for a pleasurable day at the beach.

I woke up in the hospital bed. No memory of that truck. I tried to move, but my legs wouldn’t respond.

I tried to call for Jen, but no Jen.

Later, after I got used to my surroundings, I discovered she never made it.

I cried a lot, not wanting to live.

I don’t know how long I lay in that bed. My feet had developed a terrible MRSA infection. This was treated with heavy antibiotics.

After what seemed forever, the infection was gone, giving place to a nastier infection. C-diff. This meant I became a human excrement machine.

Day, night, multiple times during the day, professionals who probably would’ve wanted to be anywhere else, rush in to clean me. Until the next movement.

Jen had taken the easy way out.

Then, a new treatment. Special pills, needed to be taken in a regime, until the pill supply was exhausted.

After months of distress, I’m finally normal again.

Without the use of my legs, at least for standing purposes.

Then came the therapy sessions.

Fast forward a few months.

I tried the hardest I could. Otherwise, there’d be no sense to my living.

I hit my high mark, able to stand, one hand holding on, for three minutes. For thirty seconds with no hand, and 15 seconds, no hands, eyes closed.

But the therapists kept working with me. I could steel myself and take whatever they gave me. And they needed to make a living.

While I worked out, patients came and went.

One day, I noticed her. I’m not sure if it was her beauty or the ordinariness of her charge, pushing her in that chair, that struck my gaze.

She had that ageless kind of beauty. I think of Joan Baez. Young, beautiful, suddenly turned older, yet her face and that silvery hair reflecting the beauty of her past.

I nodded and continued my workout.

I turned again, only then noting she was missing her right leg.

That night, I returned to my room. They take away my wheel chair at night. Maybe they think I’d get some fancy ideas. Then, my world becomes one small rectangle roughly the size of my body.

They do give me a call bell. But try using it. A fella could die.

As I lie, seeking slumber, her face swims through my inner mind.

Dear God, I don’t want a woman with one leg!

Yet, the next day, I’m in therapy again, and find myself seeking her in that gym.

She does appear, once more with her charge.

I nod and smile. She smiles back.

A couple of weeks went that way.

Then, the Activities Director had her usual Bingo game. I didn’t want Bingo to be any part of my life, yet I went. Just to be breathing and doing any activity. Certainly not for the prizes, a couple of small pieces of candy.

I guess the Activities People feel we are like little children.

Anyhow, I’m there, halfheartedly watching my card when she wheels into the table in front of me.

I spend the rest of the period forgetting my card and enjoying the mesmerizing fragrance of her perfume.

More weeks of therapy. We nod to each other daily, now.

One day I noticed it was near Christmas. You see, in this prison doubling as a health care facility, you don’t notice things like that unless someone exerts the energy to post some decorations. If you have no one to write to you, you are strictly in a limbo world.

I went to the Activities Room. Everyone there was given a Christmas stocking.

This time, she was to my left. She reached into her stocking, pulling out a neatly wrapped package.

She quickly unwrapped it. It was a porcelain ballet dancer.

She began to cry and rolled out in her chair.

Don’t ask me why. I left my stocking there and wheeled out beside her.

When I got there, I was at a loss at what to say.

She rubbed her eyes, then turned her head to me.

Scrambling for words, I said, “Is there anything I can do?”

She said, “Funny. When I was young, I wanted to be a ballet dancer.”

I couldn’t think of a comeback, so I stupidly said, “And I wanted to run track.”

I followed her to her room, none of us saying much after that. But, at least I had finally opened my mouth. I felt like a human being again, speaking to a real live person, albeit one without her leg.

That part kept haunting me. Anytime we were near one another and exchanged small talk, I never knew what to do. If I gaze at her other leg, will I appear lustful? If I turn my gaze to the missing limb, will she relive the sting of her loss? If I gaze into her eyes, will she feel I’m avoiding that missing leg? How do I maintain a conversation? Where do I look?

They always protect us from the outside world, like we’re a bunch of unwanted misfits. We can’t go out the front door without a pass. There is a small enclosed patio where you can bask in the sun for a few moments, or gawk at the migratory birds that sometimes visit awhile.

I was killing time there shortly after Christmas when she wheeled herself into the patio.

We exchanged greetings, which made us realize, we had never introduced ourselves to one another.

“I’m Celeste,” she said.

“I’m Matt.”

When Jen was here, we never had trouble talking to one another. I suddenly realized I had no idea how to make small talk to another woman.

But I didn’t have to think much about it. Conversation just came naturally.

When she had to leave, I thought for a moment and said the craziest thing from my mind.

“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

She agreed to be by my side at the New Year’s dinner.

That line from Marty worked for me!

But, Marty’s girl had two legs. I found it hard to get myself above that.

The night came, and we pulled our chairs, like a real-life couple, by a fancy table, by our nameplates.

As this was a special day, alcohol was served.

I don’t drink, but not knowing how to unwind, I ordered her a few drinks, hoping it might loosen her up for interesting conversation.

My mistake. Three drinks, and she was bawling into her plate.

I asked a charge to wheel her to her room and followed behind.

When she got to her door, I told her I was sorry.

Our relationship, if you could call it such, continued with impromptu meetings for short periods and unimportant words which seemed somehow more important when they came from her.

One day they added art sessions to our rather boring repertoire of activities.

Once more, to kill time, I decided to join a session.

I was disappointed to see we had small blank paper and crayons. Do they think we’re still kids? Are they too cheap to purchase real art supplies?

But, as I settled, she entered, pulling her chair next to mine.

There wasn’t even a class assignment. The director just said, “Draw whatever you desire.”

I could not think of a thing to draw, so I drew a picture of Jen.

I did not glance over at Celeste’s piece till she was finished.

She glanced over at mine.

“My wife,” I said.

Then, I saw her picture. It was a lovely little girl with blonde curly hair.

“My daughter,” she said. “Leukemia.”

She began to tear. I took a napkin and dabbed her eyes.

“I know how to fix this,” I said.”

Asking her permission, I took her picture and drew the form of Jen, in back of that precious girl, safeguarding her.

“There, Celeste, now Jen will always protect her in Heaven.”

I looked down on my crayon. In completing the picture, I had broken the crayon.

But, I had learned to look upon Celeste as she deserved to be looked upon.

I realized broken crayons can still create fine art.