My Wheelchair

I   hate what it means, but I love what it offers.

Stares, judgement, questions;

freedom, happiness, mobility.

My wheelchair.

To be sitting isn’t very different than to be standing,

yet every pair of eyes stings as it is drawn to me.

As though an invisible current pulls their pupils in.

As though they haven’t seen it before,

and never will again.

I catch the eyes of a staring woman,

and an apologetic smile creases her face.

Embarrassment and insecurity.

My wheelchair.

But I push the joystick and move along,

independent and free

with the hum of the motor and the click of the breaks.

No need to ask anyone to let me go

nor to have a plan of where to turn.

I have the power to ignore and smile

at those who look down at me.

The one thing that has given me a battle to fight

and the confidence that fuels my ambition

is my wheelchair.