Right-Hand Man

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I gripped the right bicep of my aging father as I half-carried him through the crowd of cheering supporters and rabid photographers.  The fabric of my button down stretched against my back as I felt myself begin to sweat amidst the August sun and flashing cameras.  The leg of his white trousers bared the dirt stain from when he fell to ground exiting the car no more than a few seconds ago.  The elbows of both of our coats held permanent creases where we locked arms and the armpits began to show sweat-stains.  We trudged down the pavement one limp step at a time�"he waved to every mother and child and shook hands with their fathers.  We laughed together and smiled for photos, taking a minute or two to travel distances that alone would span only moments.  His belt was fastened to the third notch, which was getting tighter every month.  He’d need a new one soon. 

We circled the fencing to an enclosed area, free from onlookers and reporters.  His shoulders sunk and his smiled faded as we struggled to get him to the ramp.  He sat down on the chair just beside the entry to his next challenge.  I got down on one knee and straightened his tie, pressing down his collar.  I tightened the laces of his freshly polished black dress shoes, and wiped the faded stain from the linen pants that covered his polio-stricken legs. 

“Thank you, Elliott.” he smiled.

“You’re welcome Mr. President.”

President Roosevelt used my arm as an anchor to pull himself up and clutched to it as we walked together to the podium.