Smudges and spots

Taking note of the little things, and knowing when to take action

All across my house there are little black smudges. On every door frame, corner of a wall, kitchen cupboard, there they are. A trace of my handprint. The black smudges are a recent-ish acquisition, coming from my hands that had been dyed silver my the handrims of my wheels.

My hands weren’t always this hue of silver, but in the last few years, whenever I pushed with any form of velocity, my skin changed colour. My wheels weren’t dirty and this metallic dust only came off on my skin, never on towels or baby wipes that I used to clear the source. Once it was on my skin, it got everywhere.

People would tell me I had a little something on my face, and I’d have to explain that it was from my wheels, and not from actual dirt on the ground. I avoided rubbing my face when I was out in public. I stopped wearing light coloured trousers because they would be destroyed by my hands, and then the sleeves of every jumper and coat I wore became discoloured. I was so embarrassed to shake hands with people or wave - I was a mess.

I resigned that this was my fate as a wheelchair user. That my hands would always be filthy, and that my belongings and clothes would have to pay the price for that.