Crutches

crutchThere they are: two dull grey appendages leaning against the wall daring me to get up and use them.
But it’ll hurt!  I think looking down at my bandaged knee. It’s too soon. I can’t.  The doctor said I had to be careful.

So I wait.

An hour later they’re still there. Now the dare has turned into a judgmental glare. Did you know that crutches can glare?  Well they can. When a post-operative knee patient refuses to get off the couch, they give the dirtiest looks imaginable.
I try shooting dirty looks back but know it’s no good. I turn on the tv. They don’t disappear. I try looking the other way. Still there. I bury my face in a book.
Now the looks have turned into whispers.
“Come on, Laurie. Get up. You can lean on me,” the crutches say.
“Shut-up. You don’t know how much it hurts,” I growl back.
But they are insistent, a constant susurration that finally makes me shout, “Fine, have it your way!”
The pain is excruciating as I try to get up. But as I reach for their steel support I’m surprised that it throbs  just a little bit less.

Maybe a crutch is only a crutch until you  tentatively step forward.

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