We know the rhythms of its swirls.

Audio Transcript:

Otto has started to bond with my wheelchair. His hands are learning the sturdy curves he can grip to pull himself up and how to leverage the footplate when climbing into my lap. I watch his toes push against my tires to snuggle in closer and his fingers gently graze the ridges while I push us in rhythmic, sleepy circles. The other afternoon I watched him wrap one arm around the front of the frame like he was draping an arm over the shoulder of a pal. When he hears the click-release of my breaks, hears the swish and creak of my wheels moving across the hardwood floors, he perks in anticipation of his mama’s arrival.

It’s taken me off guard, watching this friendship unfold. Even Micah — a person who interacts with my chair nearly as much as I do — has a more functional relationship with her. I can’t speak for Otto, and things could easily change, but right now I recognize something in the way Otto responds to my chair. Right now, Otto and I are the only two people I know on earth who experience my chair as a living extension of me.

Otto has no idea that people see wheelchairs as sad or inspirational. He hasn’t learned to read them as symbols of confinement or an obstacle I must overcome. My wheelchair chirps comfort, spins in play, holds steady for him and for me. We know the rhythm of its swirls, the feel of its small POP down a curb, its slow climb to the top of a hill, and the rush of air against our cheeks on the way down. I’ve never gotten to share this precise dynamic with anyone else.