My daughter Claire is in a wheelchair. She's 21 years old, a sight to behold. With long, dark hair and wide, knowing eyes the color of Elizabeth Taylor's, she enters a room with the grace of an earth angel. Some likely notice the wheels first. Perhaps others never notice them at all.
She is translucent, miraculous, a siren.
No matter that her legs are rubber now, though nearly immovable at the ankles. No matter that she struggles mightily to adjust to a step-happy walking man's world.
It's barely noticeable, her awkward struggle. She is translucent and light, edges glowing like an angel-shaped cloud.
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You forgot to mention drop-dead gorgeous, smart, serene and loving. That's your daughter, Claire. And ditto for Camille who walks into a room with the same grace that Claire rolls into one. They are like their mama.
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