The closest I came to seeing my father walk was on Saturday mornings when I helped strap him into braces. As he lay on the bed, I manipulated his body and methodically secured the four straps around each leg, the two that held each knee, buckled the waistband, tied the black high-top leather shoes, and re-checked everything. When all was secure, I spun his body, straddled his knees, and with outstretched arms grabbed hold of his hands and pulled him into a sitting position. Then, with crutches tucked underneath his arms I walked backwards pulling him into a standing position which always made me notice how tall a man he was. We shuffled as one across the three feet between his bed and the bedroom wall where we turned around so my father could lean back against the wall and be vertical against the earth.
I backed up and sat on the edge of the bed and tried to act casual, as if this were the kind of thing all fathers and sons did together. But I was ready to spring into action and catch him if he leaned too far, unable to counter gravity. That never happened, though. What did happen was that my father asked me questions about school and friends. But mostly he told me stories.
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Immediately after Abe and his parents survived Vienna’s night of shattered glass, the community gathered their youth and hastily shuttled them out of the city and out of the country to meet a...
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