Homeless Waves

“No walking on your feet unless absolutely necessary.” the doctor ordered. I wheeled my chair out of his office, and headed for the boardwalk. The sun is setting; the ocean waves are crashing against the shore pounded with the rhythm of my beating heart. Spending the rest of my life in a wheelchair meant giving up the things I love, no dancing, no high heels, no hiking, no beach-combing. As I watched as the waves rose up, curled, then crashed; drew back into the sea. With each crash, the waves seemed to pull a piece of my life out to sea, saying, no more. . . no more. ...
I couldn’t sleep wondering what was going to become of me. Thirty days, is all the time I have to resolve the situation. There must be someone who is able to lend me a
For many homeless people, it is some strange turn of events causes them to lose everything. Then after months of rejection, they begin drinking and doing drugs. Eventually, the emptiness sets in so they begin talking to themselves. They don’t have anywhere to shower or get the mail. Eventually, they lose touch with society.
I’m tired of eating cold sandwiches, day after day. I have noticed that a lot of people stop at the co-op after work to pick up something for dinner. Maybe someone will, at the very least, buy me a cup of hot coffee.”
Their generosity is overwhelming, dinner at the co-op becomes a daily affair. They do their shopping and pickup something for me. as well, hot cup of coffee and something for my supper. Sometimes, instead of putting their change in their wallet, they donate to me. At the end of the night, the deli-clerk puts together a care package for me; a cup of soup, or a salad and something hot to eat. Occasionally, I even have company for dinner. I am beginning to believe that I am going to survive this ordeal. It appears that a lot of people stop at the co-op after work to pick up something for dinner. I sure am tired of cold food everyday perhaps someone will, at the very least, buy me a cup of hot
They do their shopping and pickup something for me. as well, hot cup of coffee and something for my supper. Sometimes, instead of putting their change in their wallet, they would leave it in the sack with my food. At the end of the night, the deli-clerk would put together a care package for me; a cup of soup, or a salad and something hot to eat. Occasionally, I even have company for dinner. I am beginning to believe that I am going to survive this ordeal.
At least I thought, I was going to survive until one Saturday afternoon when I was wheeling my chair across an alley. Speeding through the alley way came a huge pickup truck, I started screaming! I couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. Other people began shouting, waving their hands, to catch the driver’s attention. The driver slams on his brakes, stopping within inches of me.
That night I made a decision, I am going to walk! I don’t care what the doc says!” That night, I headed down to the theatre district to find the man who panhandles from his wore out chair. “Sir, it would be honored If you would accept this wheelchair as a gift,” I said as I offered the chair to him. “Please, I’d like you to have my chair. I don’t need it anymore.” With tears in his eyes, the man reached out, took my hand and kissed it. I turned to walk away, so he wouldn’t notice that I was about to cry. It was like Christmas he and his friends were yelling, “Thank you.