The air jumps with vibrant color, freeon this leafy August day. A yellowthroat pitchesits poise from its perch in an oak’s shadeinto the crackling heat. I watch its olive back flitfrom branch to grass, before me and in gardensof forsythias I would have otherwise grown.Sadness stammers my dad’s feet,which seem to feel the horrors hidingin my nerves. My body is a locked ward,but he is its key. My wheelchair stillsas our eyes are pulled from left to rightby schools of shifting shapes bustling the streetin runners and cyclists, strangerswho are more myself than me, in bibsof cadmium yellow and spring green.The wind is a child, clear and innocentafter the exhaust of its business week.The whole world is let off its leash,but my body is a verb spoken in the past tenseor the tilapia mom put in the freezer last night.My dad runs his fingers through my hair.I tip my head back in reply, our cipher of touchmet by my palsy’s warped wink. Sunlight spillsinto the dark parts of my unmade being homesickfor its walking legs and coffee holding hands.The rescinded gift of a body dancing as it dresses,singing as it shampoos and meandersfor meandering’s own sake. Explosive femursI trusted to velocity, even in lashing gales on muddy edgesof a riverbank. I follow a kite as its lone red wing soarsinto sight. I am a ghost of the sprinting girlI used to be, feeling the ending of a way of beingwith blood pulsing hard in my veins.Suddenly, a ladybug alights on my forearm.I sense a quickening in my stagnant legsand a soft breeze against my eyeslike nature’s showing me there’s morethan one way to be free.