Lifted

I raise an experienced left index finger to my lips for hush. The small crowd lean their expectation towards me. Breathe slowly, relax, reach out; reach out along nerves and synapses; don’t tense; gather the will and let that resolve flow into the muscles until they have no choice but to obey. I am Atlas, sentenced to raise the heavens above a belligerent earth. I am Samson, straining against immovable pillars, praying for my proverbial strength to return.

On the quilted blue bedcover of despair, a slight tremor: an embryo of possibility. Twitches coalesce into movement and the little finger of my right hand lifts half an inch. I hold it there, the adrenalin of achievement prolonging the effort.

“Way hey! Go for it Granddad,” whoops the youngest spectator.

“Not bad,” adds Dr. Elisson with typical understatement.

It drops, and I realise that despite my well rehearsed mantra, I have been holding my breath. First time performance nerves, just like in ’59. The sugar sweet memory fuels the warming of my soul and I raise my pupils towards the one who looks so similar...

My daughter grasps the now limp hand and beams sunshine through her raincloud eyes. I return her smile with the left side of my face.