This poem rang true during my college years:
When I travel in a wheelchair due to AVN in my ankle and my knee,
Mom is the primary wheelchair-pusher for me.
She wheels me to college classes so I won’t fall too far behind.
She spends hours at school with me and says she doesn’t mind.
We wheel through the halls at U of M Hospital and she is a hoot.
We even wheeled over a construction worker’s foot, luckily covered with a steel-toed boot.
Crossing streets in my wheelchair in Boston caused great apprehension.
Crazy, too-fast drivers made for nothing but tons of tension.
Mom pushes the wheelchair with anything but grace
Because she is adamant about maintaining her mall-walking pace.
Mom claims she has no wheelchair license to push me
And after her rolling rides, I have to say I agree!