I opened the door.
Bear stood on the porch.
No motorcycle.
Two wooden crutches.
His right trouser leg had been folded and pinned high above the knee.
Under one arm, he carried a prosthetic leg.
My daughter froze.
Bear looked at her.
“Sorry I’m late.”
She stared.
“You…”
He lowered himself onto the bottom porch step.
Placed the crutches beside him.
Then rested the prosthetic across his lap.
The artificial limb was old.
Scratched metal.
Worn socket.
Faded stickers.
The outer shell of the foot had a small crack.
Near the upper section was a yellow duck sticker.
My daughter looked toward the rubber duck sitting on the shelf inside.
Then back.
“You have one too?”
Bear nodded.
“Mine’s older and uglier.”
My daughter rolled closer.
For the first time, she crossed the threshold voluntarily.
Her wheels bumped over the sill.
She stopped on the porch.
“How did you lose it?”
Bear looked toward his motorcycle-less parking spot.
“Truck hit me eighteen years ago.”
“You were riding?”
“Yes.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
Her voice became quieter.
“Did you cry?”
Bear looked directly at her.
“A lot.”
My daughter frowned.
“Grown men cry?”
“Honest ones do.”
Silence.
Then my daughter laughed.
A small laugh.
But real.
I had not heard that sound in months.
I turned away because my eyes filled too quickly.
Bear explained his prosthetic.
The socket.
Liner.
Pin system.
Pressure points.
He showed her scratches created by years of use.
He did not make it inspirational.
He complained.
“First socket they gave me rubbed here.”
He tapped one section.
“Felt like sandpaper glued to fire.”
My daughter laughed again.
“Did you tell them?”
“I used worse words.”
“You said bad words?”
“Many.”
She looked delighted.
I said:
“Bear.”
He raised both hands.
“Medical terminology.”
My daughter asked:
“Can you still ride?”
“Most days.”
“Do people stare?”
“All the time.”
“What do you do?”
Bear shrugged.
“Let them get a good look.”
My daughter considered.
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“It did.”
“When did it stop?”
Bear looked toward her.
“When I got tired of strangers deciding how my day went.”
My daughter became quiet.
Something entered her face.
Recognition.
Bear did not push.
He reattached the leg.
Stood.
Then picked up his crutches.
My daughter asked:
“Why did you bring it off?”
“Because you kept telling me to leave.”
She frowned.
“That doesn't answer it.”
Bear smiled.
“I figured showing you something might work better than explaining.”