Peephole People

Living in a wheelchair sucked. Her hands hurt, calloused only after months of bleeding. Everything she wanted was out of reach, her husband had not put all she wanted, no, all she needed at a level she was comfortable with. After all, he’d left, having had enough of her fussing, of her constant need of help. Tired of her.

An infection. Something she couldn’t even see had landed her in this rolling hell. Sure she was bitter, angry, upset, resigned. The new bicycle that had hung on the wall, quickly removed, never ridden in the park as planned. Lots of things would never happen as planned she realized long ago.

Furniture moved so she could easily get around the house sat empty now, friends who stopped in came less often, weary of her sour face, sour attitude. Outdoor wheelchair excursions used all her energy. People stared, held doors open with a look of pity she felt she deserved, but hated nonetheless.  If she had been put in the chair because of an accident, it would be so much easier to blame someone else, blame a car, a careless driver; but how do you blame something you can’t see, touch, or really believe exists?

Anger woke with her each morning, stayed for breakfast, left only to be replaced by hate, sorrow, defeat. No stable mental state for her, no sir! Her roller coaster ride made possible with her very own wheels. An artsy friend had come over and painted flowers, and vines along the chair rails, foot rests, and for a while it made her smile, however she soon lost interest with the same view of flowers that never gave off rich aromas, became bored with the same old view out her windows.

Her landlord installed a peephole at her now short eye level. If her doorbell rang, which really didn’t happen often, she was able to see the belly of the offending bell ringer. Much good that did. Ha!

Once, while rolling past her door, she saw movement through the peephole, and stopped to snoop, after all, no one had buzzed her door.

She noticed an entire other world sitting watching her neighbors coming and going. Mornings they seemed chipper, eager to take on the day. She snorted a laugh at that one. She wondered how it was possible to do the same things each day, and be happy about it. Each evening, these same once smiling puppets arrived home, smiles not as shiny, a bit of a slump in their shoulders. That’s more like it she thought. Reality has arrived. Occasionally these drudges put on fancy duds and came home drunk, or with strangers. That made mornings interesting, a stranger tossed into the mix of ordinary.

After this discovery; of life in the hallway, she eagerly arose each morning, and actually looked forward to evenings, when she could sit in her fated chair, and watch her peephole people.