Susan Senator

There you are, looking so happy to have found the Richard Scarry book Cars and Trucks and Things That Go from so long ago. That book was one you had memorized, and recited again and again while you walked in circles at Aunt Rhoda’s house, on that successful Thanksgiving 18 years ago. I would get the diagnosis just two months later, but the darling circular repetition did have an edge to it, I do remember that. So much fear slicing, but subtly hurting, like a million tiny paper cuts, into my consciousness back then. So much fear, knowing that all was really not.

On our walk today I felt grateful for that tiny gesture, your finger pushing the “Walk” button without any prompting from me. Anyone else would have missed that pink fingertip moving so wisely, but I am ever vigilant, my attention to you drawn like a sword against the world. My heart open, soft as a pillow, ready to rejoice at the smallest advance, the step forward. This is something I learned probably in Aunt Rhoda’s noisy TV room. Maybe even much earlier than that.

So, the finger on the button. But yesterday, even with that flashing “walk” sign telling you to walk, that blue Prius had to make her right turn, she just took her opportunity, without seeing your bright green tee shirt, or that deceptive white lit up man who beckoned with evil banality, mechanical indifference: Sure, you can walk. Go ahead! I take no responsibility for you, I can only do so much.

Me too.