Run
I bought a treadmill so I can learn to walk again. I believe it is possible; I have done it before. My body has taken my legs from me many times and each time I have coaxed them back, over years and years sometimes, a few metres at a time. And I have tried for years and years this time too, but I feel stronger this spring. I am holding onto the furniture less. Pain is quieter. I want to try again, to reclaim a little, if not a lot. Despite my history, I believe my nervous system can still be soothed, tuned, helped to sing a sweeter, calmer song.
The treadmill folds and fits under the sofa like a conjuring trick. It means I can avoid the neighbours' stares, the kerbs and bins. It means I will not get stranded. I put it on the lowest setting and I walk very slowly for one minute, my hands on the support bar, watching the numbers count up sixty times, and then I stop. It feels like forever and I have to rest a good long time afterwards, but it is more fun than I thought it would be. Actually, it feels glorious. Look at me go! And look at me stop again, yes, but for this little while, I am moving. I am away.
The best thing is not my walking practice though, it is my boy's new obsession. He'll arrive home from school and disappear up the stairs, reappearing in shorts.
"Can I go on the treadmill, mum?"
And with that, he'll start to run.
I stay with him each time, to check his footing is safe and to cheer him on. His twelve year old's legs are covered in a fine, young man's hair, his feet a rhythmic thump, thump. He runs and he runs until his hair sticks up in sweaty tufts, until his t-shirt begins to melt around his shoulders. He talks between loud breaths, about his day and mine.
"Ask me questions," he pants, "it helps."
And so I do, about everything I can think of, and he laughs and puffs out his answers. We watch the distance and the time gauge click round to numbers I can only imagine seeing on my own tiny attempts. I call out his progress. I sit and watch his strong, lean body find its stride; his health my health, his pride, my pride. I lean forward, entranced, my whole face a smile. I can do nothing but watch him.
"You're doing so well!" I call in delight, in admiration. "Keep going!"
It matters not a jot, then, that I can only do a minute. He runs for both of us. He slows in the end, stops, breathes hard, and my muscles feel just as warm, just as elated. We grin at each other as he collapses on the sofa, victorious. How wonderful it is to have a body and to use it. A little, a lot: what does it matter.