Chautauqua I stand and pull up on the canvas seat to fold the wheelchair partway, and that’s all that’s needed. It’s light without Clyde, and no problem to bounce up the steps. I’m back on the fourth floor in a minute and I roll the chair up next to him and drop the cushion on top. Clyde reaches up and locks the brakes, flips back the armrest. When he sees me hovering, he says, “I got it from here.” I watch as he lifts himself slowly, using the strength from his triceps. His body moves intensely upwards, like a tree growing in time lapse. For a moment he hovers above the cushion and then he’s back in his seat. The whole thing is mesmerizing. He lets out a big exhale and then smiles at me. I open the door to the apartment. “Wait,” Clyde says, and he takes my fingers and leads me back towards him, almost like a skate move. He curls me into his lap and pulls me in closer. It’s clear now that Clyde means to ferry me inside for this first time. It would be easier if I got up and opened the door for us both to pass through, but Clyde’s a romantic, and I am too, because I lean back into his chest and hold my legs out, giving him room to drive the chair forward, pushing us over the threshhold.
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