Bear said:
“I have been informed that complimenting young women is dangerous territory.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Tell me I look good.”
“You look terrifying.”
“BEAR.”
He smiled.
“You look good, kid.”
She nodded.
“Better.”
Years passed.
Thursday visits remained.
Not every week eventually.
Life got busy.
School.
Therapy.
Club events.
Bear got older.
My daughter grew.
At twelve, she completed her first adaptive 5K.
Not running the whole distance.
Some running.
Some hand cycle.
Some wheelchair.
She crossed the finish line furious because another competitor beat her by forty-two seconds.
Bear waited beyond it.
“You finished.”
“I lost.”
“Good.”
She glared.
“Why good?”
“Means you’ll come back.”
She did.
At thirteen, she beat the other competitor.
Bear pretended not to cry.
She caught him.
“Honest men?”
Bear wiped his face.
“Shut up.”
At fourteen, she began helping younger amputees at the same clinic she once hated.
She never told them they were lucky.
Never told them everything would be fine.
She sat.
Listened.
Sometimes said:
“This part sucks.”
Parents occasionally looked shocked.
Children usually relaxed.
At fifteen, she found Bear’s old bell in the kitchen drawer.
The one engraved FORWARD.
She carried it to him.
“You gave me this when I hated you.”
“Correct.”
“You want it back?”
“No.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
Bear shrugged.
“Your problem now.”
She eventually attached it to her adaptive bike.
Not for luck.
For history.
The yellow duck remained too.
At sixteen, she asked Bear something she had avoided for years.
“Did I really remind you of Emily?”
Bear became quiet.
They sat on our porch.
Same porch.
Same maple tree across the street.
Different girl.
Older man.
Bear’s beard almost entirely gray.
He answered:
“At first.”
My daughter waited.
“Then?”
“Then you became you.”
She nodded.
“Were you scared?”
“Of what?”
“That helping me would make you miss her more.”
Bear looked toward the road.
“Yes.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
She looked down.
Bear continued:
“But missing someone isn't a disease.”
“Doesn't spread because you remember.”
“Sometimes remembering hurts.”
“Sometimes it keeps good things moving.”
My daughter looked at him.
“Like the motorcycle.”
Bear smiled.
“Like the motorcycle.”
The Iron Lanterns eventually modified the red Harley.
Not for Bear.
For my daughter.