I stopped at the edge of the garage.
For several seconds, I stood there, staring at that railing.
It had been built with too much care to be temporary.
The boards were smooth under a fresh coat of varnish. The railings had rounded edges, sanded so that no splinters could catch the palm of the hand. At the top, the old threshold of the house had been removed and replaced with an almost level entrance.
I had spent thirty-four years watching occupational therapists teach frightened patients how to move around their homes after a stroke, a hip replacement, or an accident.
I knew what I was looking at.
Someone had designed this with reduced mobility in mind.
I’ve reached another milestone.
That’s when I saw the folding workbench.
An open pot of yellow paint lay next to a wrapped paintbrush
