A small control. A road of his choosing.
The Other Turn
His daughter turned left. Grandpa turned right.
She had gone three steps towards the little park before she heard the chair moving away. He was already facing the town square, his hat resting on his knees and one hand on the control.
“The benches are this way,” she said.
“I brought my own.”
She looked at the padded seat, then at his face. He lifted his hat and put it on, taking his time with the brim.
“Where are we going, then?”
“The café.”
He had checked the charge before they left. His daughter carried the small bag they had packed together. At the crossing, she waited beside him while he looked along the road, turning his head to bring the approaching traffic into view.
When the signal changed, he moved forward. She followed on his left, where he could see her.
A Narrow Door
The café still had the green door he remembered.
It also had a step.
He stopped before it. Through the window, he could see the counter, the jars of biscuits, and the corner where he used to sit. A new display stand occupied part of the doorway. Even beyond the step, the entrance looked tighter than he recalled.
His daughter reached for her phone.
“There’s another place near the park.”
“Ask Martin to come out, would you?”
She went inside. A moment later, the owner appeared, wiping his hands on his apron. His greeting began loudly and then softened when he saw where Grandpa had stopped.
“I could bring something out.”
“A table,” Grandpa said. “And a chair for her.”
Martin glanced along the frontage. There was room beside the window, clear of the pavement’s main path. He brought a small table outside, then returned for a chair.
Grandpa approached slowly and stopped short of the table edge. He checked the space for his knees before moving closer.
His daughter sat down. Martin waited with his pencil ready.
“Two teas?”
“One tea. She likes coffee.”
His Chosen Road
While they waited, his daughter noticed the folded chessboard tucked into the bag.
“So that’s why the café.”
He held out his hand for it.
At home, learning the chair’s control had involved a surprising number of crooked approaches to the kitchen table. Once, he had stopped facing the refrigerator instead. His daughter had offered to straighten him. He had asked her to wait while he tried again.
They still kept the training and maintenance appointments. Some mornings he preferred company for an outing. Today he had asked her to come, then left her guessing about the destination.
She opened the board between them.
From their table, the park was visible across the square. The shortest way there crossed a rough stretch beside the fountain. They discussed the smoother route around it for the journey home. He wanted to make that decision before the afternoon crowd arrived.
Then he took the black pieces.
“You can have the first move.”
A Better View
Her coffee arrived with a biscuit on the saucer. She moved a pawn, took a sip, and began telling him about the week.
He listened with his hand resting beside the board. Occasionally someone passing the window greeted him. Martin came out to ask whether the table was all right.
“A little nearer her,” Grandpa said.
His daughter helped move it. He adjusted the chair’s position himself, then rested both hands in his lap.
She was studying her next move when he pointed towards the park.
“Nice benches.”
She looked up. “We can go there afterwards.”
He considered the board, then slid his bishop into place.
“We’ll see how long you take.”
This is a fictional story inspired by powered wheelchair use. The poster’s steampunk chair is an artistic design, not a depiction of a tested commercial model.
Leave a Reply