“when we are dead
we all have wings
we won’t need legs to stand.” -Sufjan Stevens
My coffee was coming out. A medium white chocolate mocha, topped with whipped cream and some cinnamon sprinkles of my own design. I capped the drink, and felt the heat from the liquid seeping through the cup. I glanced at the couple that had come in while I was waiting. They had two children in tow, and the man was pushing the woman in a wheelchair. I paid little attention to them, except to offer a twinge of pity before taking my coffee and walking back to my couch where my book and journal waited.
The children had wandered into the sitting room while I was gone fetching my drink. They were crawling all over, under chairs and over low tables. I was just sitting down when I noticed the girl’s legs. They were missing below the knee. Her pants were purple, made of some stretchy material and the lower half of the pant-leg dangled and flapped as she skittered from place to place. A girlish flower decal adorned her t-shirt. Dirty blonde locks of uncombed hair fell shoulder length, and her bangs had been snipped out of the way of her playful, green eyes. She caught my glance and silently giggled, cavorting around the legs of a chair across from me.
Her younger brother’s face popped out from behind her, crooked teeth, boyish dimples, starry eyes and the same dirty blonde hair cut short and close to his head. I smiled at both of them. The boy pulled himself up onto a chair and I saw the bottom half of his pants dangling. He too, only possessed a half-length of leg.
He held my gaze for a moment, until his sister tugged on the limp fabric, summoning him back into their playground and sending me into a cavernous place where thoughts and emotions ebb and flow like the tide.
I was fighting off disgust, attempting to reconcile pity and compassion, clinging tenaciously to whatever rational feelings were available. Sorrow was welling up and I was drowning in its depth. I glanced over toward the counter and my heart throbbed to my throat. The mother in the wheelchair—her legs ended at the knee. Her husband was ordering a double espresso and a caramel latte. She was staring out the window.
I heard something stirring behind me, and turning to look, I saw the little boy struggling up into the chair.
“Hi,†I said, trying not to betray my lack of confidence.
The boy stopped his progress and looked at me, a question in his eyes. “Hi,†he responded, and proceeded to make his way onto the chair. I turned back to my book and tried to read a couple of paragraphs.
Presently, my peripherals signaled the boy’s ascent onto a couple of chairs that stood back to back just two feet to my left. He perched himself on the peak, where the backs of the chairs met, and regarded me with a mystified look. I watched as he folded the extra fabric under his thighs. To my right, the little girl scampered past on hands and knees, clutching a fistful of leaves harvested from the decorative plants. She crawled into a corner and began to chew on one of the leaves.
“We like to climb on tables,†came the boy’s voice, high and tinny. He sat atop the mountainous chairs with such a measure of pride and accomplishment that I nearly applauded him. He smiled and his eyes twinkled.
I smiled in return, “I like climbing on tables too.†He smirked in interest, but I recanted, “Except now I can’t, because people tell me I’m too big, too old.â€
Now his brow furrowed with disdain, but he said nothing to me. His eyes shifted to his mother in her wheelchair. “Mommy, mommy! Look at me!†He bounced up and down to accentuate the request for attention. His mother broke her stare away from the wintry window and smiled at her son. There was a certain fatigue in her eyes.
The boy was rocking back and forth now, and I, sensing he might lose his balance without legs to stabilize himself, said quietly, “Don’t fall.â€
He heard me, stopped rocking, looked at me for a long moment and stated simply, “I won’t.†He went on rocking, and I, sufficiently chastened, turned back to the girl in the corner. Her pant legs were splayed out in front of her. She spit out a slimy, green wad of leaf onto the carpet. Discarding the leaf, her eyes searched the area curiously, avoiding the couch I sat on. Her brother dismounted the chair mountain and walked on the stubs of his legs to where his sister sat. They giggled together and looked at me. All I could do was smile.
The girl crawled cautiously over to the table in front of my couch and quickly stole my black journal off of the tabletop. She looked at me, a challenge in her emerald eyes, and retreated to the corner, journal in hand. I smiled in amusement.
Convinced that no reprimand would beset her, she ran her hands over the smooth material. Her brother leaned in to see what she had found. At that moment, their parents gathered their drinks and called their children to leave. The girl glanced at her parents, me, and finally the journal in her hands.
The father was wheeling his wife out of the coffee shop, steaming drinks resting in hand. He called again to his children.
The girl rose quietly and placed the journal on the edge of the table, watching me all the while. I affirmed her with one more smile and a nod. Then she was scampering after her parents, hands gripping the ground, legs bouncing behind her.
The boy was staring at me. I returned his gaze, and without a thought, said, “Keep climbing, bro.†He graced me with one last smirk and then catapulted himself up and out of the area, knocking my journal to the floor as he went. If he noticed, there was no sign.
I sat for a moment in the stillness. Hand on my head. On my heart. I rose and retrieved my journal, opened it, and tried to make sense of what had happened. Then I rose, put on my coat, scarf, gathered my books and now cold mocha, and walked on two healthy legs out of the shop and into the windy, winter afternoon.
Copyright © 2007 Timothy Snediker