If these legs of mine could only talk instead of walk, what stories would be told. They have seen it all and treasured the sights, the memories. There were dead dogs in the street, glorious, brilliant flowers dazzled my eyes. The rim of Mt. St. Helens has felt my step. Dances, streets, parades, kicks and fondling, sensations that still hurt, please my mind. Bristly hair has been shaved, broken bones set in heavy, miserable casts for too many months. The burning sand has set my feet, my legs on fire and glaciers have frozen them blue. Prayers said on straw mats, on velvet, on fur, on my knees, frighten, sadden me. My legs keep going. So do I.
I’ve done my time. My attached limbs are long, lanky, need do nothing but lie still in bed, feet resting on two stacked pillows to make my ankle swelling go away. The dermatologist has found brown, scaly spots to be zapped, spots caused by the hot sun on yellow sandy days. Varicose veins look like road maps to nowhere. Toes curl under. Small ones get longer. Long ones shorter. My legs cry for the old days but no one hears, no one except me. They are my legs, my feet, and they have been good to me, taken me where ever I have ordered them to go. Now I must turn the tables on them, treat them kindly.
I lie in bed almost constantly. If I could cut a pee hole in the mattress, I might never get up. My ‘home’ is near the window that I have covered with heavy drapes. People, people, up and down the street, up and down the stairs, the curbs, into cars annoy me. I don’t want to see them anymore and they sure as hell don’t want to see me either. There is little time left. It sometimes frightens me, enchants me to try to do it all over again, go where I want, wrap my legs around bodies I chased away.
My grandson softly taps on my door. ‘Can I come in Grandma?’ Oh, how I want to sing out, ‘Of course, of course,’ yet barely whisper, ‘Yes, Georgie, come in.’ He asks if he can sit on my bed and hold my hand. I pat the bed and direct him where to put his soft, young tush, take his hand in my yellow, bony fingers and look into his blue/green eyes. ‘Grandma, will you tell me the story again about the volcano? We are studying them in school and I can tell the class what happened to you.
I begin. ‘Georgie, Georgie, Puddin’ pie. I kissed a man and made him cry.’ ‘No, grandma, the volcano story!’
‘O.K., Georgie. A guide was taking me and six men to the rim of Mt. St. Helens. Smoke and strong smells burned our noses. Fiery heat made us sweat and shake with fear. The day was sunny and clear. The world was spread before us. Suddenly we felt it shake. A terrible, terrible rumble of noise roared from inside the hole. Smoke and hot ashes flew out. Our guide screamed, ‘Run, run, run!’ We all tried. Fire was falling around us. I fell and started to roll down, down. My body felt like it was breaking into tiny pieces. I cannot explain how I reached safety but somehow I did. The guide and six men were never found.
And here I am, Georgie, my handsome young man, telling you a story I’ve told before, but now have another, a new one to tell you, if you promise me you will never, never tell a soul. It is my secret.’ ‘I promise, Grandma, I promise. Tell me, tell me.’
‘Georgie, I never went on that volcano trip. I never did any of the things I said I did. But, I haven’t lied to you. Since I was little and had a terrible disease called Polio, I have not walked out of this room of mine but my imagination soared me to places that my mother told me about. She made drawings, showed me pictures from magazines, read to me about Christopher Columbus, the Pilgrims, Egyptians. My mother became my legs, my eyes so I could see, feel, touch everything.
But soon, Georgie, I will be going someplace that is going to give me peace and when I get there I believe with all my heart, I will walk again. What I want you to do for me, for yourself, is write my stories, maybe do an entire book, publish it. You and I may someday be famous. Call it , ‘Just Stories- Stories My Grandma Told Me.’
Now go downstairs, eat all your vegetables, watch the History Channel. Start a Writing Book, maybe do the volcano story as the honest truth.’
Give me a cuddly hug. Good night, Georgie.’
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