Weeks spent waiting, motionless. Life jerks to a halt. Monotony sets in, day follows day. The old way of life becomes a memory. Immobility becomes the new reality.
The day of triumph appears - the prison removed; the captive set free. Rejoice! He who has been set free moves cautiously, tenderly. The body reverts back to the imprisoned form by default.
Reminders of freedom are met with denial. No, there is no walking. The leg was hurt; don't you remember? No, there is no climbing, no standing. Leg hurt, remember? Over and over I hear this voice of disbelief.
The cast is looked for, asked for. The former way of being has too strong a memory. There is no walking in freedom, only careful moving - always remembering the confinement.
How much am I like this little boy - free from the bonds that condemned my soul to die, yet holding myself back because I remember my captivity?