Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'Nobody gets justice. People only get good luck or bad luck.' Orson Wells

Another sip of coffee, and I wonder if it's really is necessary to have the ashes at a memorial. The circle of arguments complete another path and I arrive at the same conclusion; if her friends can put the effort into a service, the least I could do is bring the urn. I had hoped one of her friends would pick it up. This is the only time I would welcome a knock at the door, and I briefly glance there willing someone to rap on it.

A look at the clock shows that I have another hour before I have to leave for hot yoga. I jump up. I had forgotten to add time for the stop at the memorial into my routine.

Suddenly my morning is a storm. I have an efficient shower, jump into some clothes, snatch socks that don't match, grab the urn, and run out the door.

I open my gym bag to throw the urn in, and stop; it feels wrong. I stand outside my door, and contemplate what I am doing. My usual routine is walking to the centre. I consider skipping hot yoga. Instead I decide that things have been far from normal; I put the bag and urn in the car, and drive to the church.

One improvement maturity has made on me was the inclination to be on time, and normally, a few minutes early. Today, I am late like an irresponsible teenager. I also underestimated the traffic flow and volume for the time of day. 

It is an overcast, cool, and windy day.  I feel miserable but am glad to take the car.  I speed down Lasalle Boulevard in the left lane, hoping to pass slower vehicles while watching for speed traps.  A car slows in front of me, and I curse; they are making a left turn but did not put the signal on. Then it comes on, and I growl at the unhelpful discourtesy.Without signalling, I cut into the right lane, speed past the elderly lady in her Aveo, and then jerk back into the fast lane.

The day has become stressful. My delay compounds; I need to find a gas station. I had been ignoring the car's warning light, waiting to conveniently pass a pump, instead of diverting to it. It is below the red line for empty; I've never pushed the gauge to this limit. I am forced to make a detour.

A small yellow car signals intent to trespass into my lane. I accelerate to prevent letting them in.  Despite the favour of a signal, my blood pressure rises. The car invades my lane anyway. I grumble and have to brake. The light ahead turns yellow.  The interloper sneaks through.  It is too risky to outrun the light; I have to stop. Today is a horrible day; nothing is going right. I look at my watch, and wonder what karma is coming back at me.

I impatiently tap my fingers on the steering wheel and survey the intersection. There are no crossing cars. Instead, a quadriplegic young girl in an electric wheelchair coasts in front of me with her male friend. She has long black hair tucked into a knitted hat. Her companion is six feet tall, with a large brown unbuttoned trenchcoat; his hands are in the pockets which make the jacket sway as he walks. I am angry at the timing; however, it is a wheelchair, and I should afford compassion and patience. My heart rate subsides. I wonder what had happened to her; a car accident similar to Jack's family? A midnight shooting during a robbery at a 24 hour convenience store? An illness?

Halfway across the intersection, the wheelchair speeds to the other side, and she leaves her friend behind.  It is faster than I thought was safe, and I am concerned that there is a problem with it. The slight downhill slope may have allowed it to accelerate, and perhaps the brakes had failed.  Her friend immediately jumps into pursuit.  The wheelchair mounts the curb as her friend arrives with his long coat fluttering behind him like a cape. She stops, and then spins her wheelchair in circles on the sidewalk several times, and laughs. I am focused on them, curious to find out what could make a young quadriplegic girl happy. He lifts her hand and gives it a 'high five' slap.

While crossing the road she had invoked a sudden race to the other side and had won, and was performing celebratory pirouettes on the sidewalk.

They are enjoying a refreshing day outdoors, while I sulk in a self-inflicted miserable and cloudy one.

The wheelchair stops spinning, and, she speeds down the sloping sidewalk. He launches into pursuit. Another race? He reaches her, and then jumps onto the back of the chair, holding on the bars like a 'piggy-back' ride.

I am shocked; he is fully capable of walking, with no need to wear out his friend's batteries. He should be gently helping her, not catching a ride.

The wheelchair speeds faster on the downward slope with his added weight. The knitted hat flies off, and her long hair flows behind her and into her attendants face. He leans down to streamline their profile; they look like kids on a go-kart that never goes fast enough. 

She smiles at the wind and closes her eyes.

At the bottom of the slope, the wheelchair slows, and her friend hops off. He runs back and grabs her hat. She declines his offer to put it back on. They continue their walk, and whatever conversation that they were involved in. 

I feel guilty. I had injected too much of my misery into the image, and assumed the worse. It was wrong to have been tapping my steering wheel angrily while a young girl in a wheelchair happily crosses the road.

She could have had an accident while speeding in the wheelchair, but, that's what made it fun.

I hear the angry honk of a car horn behind me; the traffic light is green.  I continue, at the speed limit, to the gas station. While filling the car, I close my eyes, and take deep breaths. I smell rain in the air.