I am their pet. A weakling among the strong. I try to keep up, but am always a day late and a dime short.
They speak differently when I am around. Like I am a child with ears too gentle.
They are my family. I try to keep them safe. But they wonder why.
They pity me. Because of their pity, they treat me different. Softer words, a loose hug. I try to treat them with respect, but they don't notice. Even Weasel treats me like I'm not one of the others.
They all treat me like a puppy- to be petted and sent away. I wonder, will they ever realize that behind the crutch is a man?
I walk funny, I laugh oddly, I speak differently. Sometimes, just for an instant, I can pretend I'm "one of the guys". But that moment vanishes as they put me in a box.
The box of a cripple.
Unintelligent. Suck up. Weakling. Child.
I hide behind the mask they give me. Because it's the only way to survive. The only way to be. But I am not a pet- not a child. If they'd let me out of this box I could be- would be- a man.
But I'm not. I'm frozen. Held down by "helping" hands. The painful reality of my "friends".
Let me change. Let me grow. Let me be my own person- not who you tell me I am because of what you see.
Take my crutch. I'll stand straight and tall. I will choose my own path. Away from New York- away from Santa Fe. And at last, alone…
I will be me.