scanning the midlands

There is a man with one leg in a wheelchair inching himself stoically around his usual circuit of the shopping mall.

I saw him today, and it was first time in over a year.  Years ago, when I worked at a nearby store, I would see him, pushing on the wheels only lightly with his hands, letting his one remaining leg do most of the work, folding back and forth like a lever.  He propels himself, his head not looking down, but not looking up–scanning the midlands.  The pants on his abbreviated leg are bunched up and tied in a cluster where his knee should be.  He does not hid the injury, doesn’t fold the pants back to mask to absence.  Instead, he makes it prominent, not to show it off, but I imagine to make a point of not hiding it.  When he’s scooting along, he’s all business.  But his eyes are always scanning.  I remember once, years ago, on my way to work, I watched him to a second too long, and his eyes met mine.  I don’t know what I expected but I didn’t expect him to smile so largely.  A smile like that is more contagious than the flu.  I forget the brief words we shared, but I do remember walked the rest of the way to work feeling very happy, pleased, glad to have even briefly shared those words with him.

When I saw him today, he pushed himself along and passed me without looking up.