My hands when I looked down were small again. Like when I was a child, barely able to grasp at the back of the leather armchair which felt cold and slick to the touch. My feet were bare, and the ground beneath my feet had that same leathery feel to it, but softer. The legs I walked on were not mine they must have belonged to an alien unused to walking and felt barely able to carry my weight. I knew they would give way soon allowing me to be swallowed whole by this strange surface beneath me.
I could hear a woman’s voice close at hand that cooed at me in a baby speak I couldn’t understand. But the tone of her voice was encouraging and the hand in the small of my back supported me as I tried to learn to walk, like when I was a child, and the bowel I couldn’t control since the stroke caused me to fill my incontinence pants with shit again.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.