Being inspired, maybe – 47

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A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance:


And, then, the words:


I had seen that view of the railway station every morning for the last 23 days, and it was still as far away from me, as it was the first time I saw it.

I used to catch the train into the city, every morning, sit at a desk in an office, sometimes staring out the window, dreaming of bigger, better things to do with my life.

Just a short six months ago.

Just before everything changed.

You see, coming home one night, later than usual after stopping off to have a few drinks and dinner with a woman whom I discovered was as interested in me as I was in her, I went to cross the road, for just a second forgetting to look both ways, and got hit by a car.

I'd always joked about getting hit by a bus.

There were not enough fingers and toes to count the broken bones, or fingers on one hand to count the times the surgeons had to try to put me back together again.  No one had ever said the words 'full recovery' and sitting on the seat, looking at the railway station as I did every morning since I was able to walk the short distance from the bus stop, I was beginning to think it was little more than a pipe dream.

Going back to work, that it.  Getting on the train, going to the office, staring out the window pondering what might be, and coming home again.  Or having dinner with Evelyn again.  It would be unfair to expect her to continue seeing me, not like this.

But ironically, it was that thought of walking as far as the station, and sitting there thinking that one day I might make that trip again, that kept me going, giving me a determination I didn't think I would have, not after the first few days after the accident when I was a mess.

Little things, really.

Like the determination to walk again after the doctors said in all likelihood I wouldn't.

Like the determination to be independent after the doctors said in all likelihood I wouldn't.

Like sitting on this seat, after an arduous bus ride, something only a month ago I would have said would be impossible.

I was learning that nothing was impossible and that I was a far different person than I was before.  That person just let everything and everyone wash over him as if my life of drudgery was preordained.

Now I knew differently.

I watched the latest passengers get off the bus and disperse, except for one which headed in my direction.  The same person who got off the same bus, at the same time, and walked in the same direction.

To this seat.

And to ask the same question.

"How are you this morning?"

And to whom I gave the same reply.

"Better."

"That's good."

Evelyn stood, held out her hand, and said, "I think its time for our stroll through the mall, don't you?"

Like I said, nothing was impossible, bot any more.


© Charles Heath 2019

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