It started with an “I voted” sticker.

I stuck it on my cane, and soon

came my first cane compliment,

a jolt that echoed throughout my body.

Could it be possible to be proud

of my cane?

 

Before, there had been only shame and sadness:

See that poor lady who has to use a cane?

Listen to her clacking along slowly,

clinging to her husband’s arm,

taking breaks at all the benches.

 

I hated that I had to use this thing.

Hated when it slipped from wherever it leant

and banged onto the floor,

scaring everyone and eliciting annoyed stares.

Hated when the handle caught on my pants pocket

and made me trip.

Hated when I realized I couldn’t carry anything with my free hand

and still open a door.

Hated my first and last trip to a grocery store, when I couldn’t

carry a basket and also put food purchases inside.

Hated when walking with someone meant falling father

and farther behind until they paused for me to catch up.

Hated this ugly, unwanted, alien object;

hated the reasons I need it.

 

I added more stickers:

a shiny sea turtle, a disability pride flag,

my “I got vaccinated” sticker, another “I voted” sticker,

a feminist fist, a Black Lives Matter fist,

a globe that says “We’re all on the same team,”

a colorful “All bodies are good bodies,”

a glittery cardiac organ that says “you are worthy

of every beautiful dream in your heart,”

an Oxford comma fan club sticker,

until I ran out of space.

 

Now, this is my cane; an extension of me

that lets me get out of the apartment once in a while.

That lets me go downstairs and enjoy the community garden’s flowers,

that lets me make it to medical appointments,

that lets me get to my husband’s car to go for a little drive.

 

Now, when someone compliments my cane,

I’m not surprised — the compliments feel right