Extra Added attachments.

The wheel chair releases you from the bed. Peter Pan flight . I have good shoulders so it's fast and safe. People tend to give you room . But most of the time now, you're at home so it doesn't matter .A smaller place than it was ,and your only territory. Two rooms and a bath . From the chair to the walker is more of  an even trade. People smile to see you standing and say something nice, but the pain is up again. These things are your legs now. They're slow and they're big and they stop you from actually walking .  And then here's the fearful thing, the thing that stabs and hangs on . Yes, it's temporary, this whole thing , you know that, you will walk again. Even With the chair , the walker, the cane . Sometimes you see a flash , small slice of fear when you joke with someone , " I'm practicing for old age, we're all going there." And they shudder just the tiniest subtle shiver there. Yes, it's temporary . But long enough to know exactly that. That the hold on your body is temporary , and that when you walk , and then maybe run, that that is temporary too. The cane , the walker, the wheel chair, can and will wait for you as long as it takes you to get back to them. They smile patiently like Norman Bates in his moms clothes. " wouldn't harm a fly". They just wait for you. And the real estate that has so diminished, that's like your Dad in Assisted Living.
    The sun stays bright on the ever moving trees. I'm glad it does. The quiet builds your own quiet. These are good, benevolent things.  The movement now  comes easier , but the pain never goes. Like the hardware, the aluminum and plastic walker and chair,  you can't move without it and you won't rest out of its sight. It tells you that it too is temporary , and its absence will also be temporary . And the sunlight on the trees is temporary, as the wind on the water. And the breeze on your face.

Coming home from the hospital with trees around.

I think the thing that attracted me most was the thought of the green. In the hospital the colors range from a cloudy black depth to yellowish shallow beige. ( just leave it ...). I guess they try to make it livable. In the rehab joint the window views were sharp and narrow. In one I saw a crow sit on a chimney . There was an angle and a triptych of concrete gray and lighter gray and darker gray. This would not help anyone. The crow did not stay. For two or three last days they switched me to a room where I saw the tops of trees. While they made sure I could slide on my longboard from my bed to the wheel chair, the wheel chair to the other chair , and back again. The consciousness of temporary ownership was over all , like a tarp at a yard sale . Lots of folks there making a permanent change , the wheel chair now the only motion. My luck was holding.

   So I thought about the green and the trip down Brighton to River Rd. I was warm and not prepared. I was coming from the dark and angular into to warm bright green tunnel that is our world here that we forget . As we forget the infinite range of shifts of shades of green , all of them , and the haze of one tree into another in soft round clouds of deep and light and hazes of green . All of it alive as you left it. Waving gently in a breeze that set your tunnel road moving and the light on every stretch just a split wavelength of subtle green , so many of them, never to have seen so many before. Where had I been looking for all those years? To never have seen this, every inch for all of us, every day and every minute a new world. I liked it. 

    When I ran , before , I ran through trees. I smelled them , breathed their oxygen. I put their leaves on my face, I crushed them to smell the small change from one to another. If there was no other gift for waiting, for staying alive when I didn't remember why I should, this was here now, as if it had been waiting , for one more small mammal. I fell into them all the way home. They surround me now.