“I've seen it, too,” she said. “I read a poem once about a little white bird that came to rest on a windowsill10 and the lady who lived in the house began to put out food for it. Soon the lady fell in love, but it was a mismatched11 love. Every day the little bird came to the window and the lady put out food. When the love affair was over, the little white bird never returned, but the woman went on putting out the crumbs12 every day for years and the wind just blew them away."
In July he took her boating frequently. The most awkward event, she felt, was getting in and out of the boat. For Charles, however, these “freight handlings,” as she came to call it, seemed to be the highlight13 of the outings. In the boat she felt helpless, unable to move around, sitting in one spot. Also, she was unable to swim, should the boat turn over. Charles didn't observe her discomfort; she did note how much he enjoyed being in control. When he called for her one day in early August, she refused to.
They would, instead, she said, go for a walk in which she would move herself by the strength of her own arms and he would walk beside her.
“Why don't you just rest your arms and let me push you?”
“No.”
“Your arms will get sore14. I've been helping you do it for three months now.”
“I wheeled myself for twelve years before you came along.”
“But I don't like having to walk beside you while you push yourself!”
“Do you think I liked sitting helpless in your boat every weekend for the past two months?”
He never considered this and was shocked into silence. Finally he said quietly, “I never realized that, Amy. You're in a wheelchair all the time—I never thought you'd mind sitting in the boat. It's the same thing.”
“It is not the same thing. In this chair, I can move by myself; I can go anywhere I need to go. That boat traps me so I can't do anything—I couldn't even save myself if something happened and I fell out.”
