Toughening Up

by Arden Eli Hill

Chains slipped over his ankles, pedals spun in sunlight, and blood christened Tyler's first two-wheeler. Elbows and knees tore raw against the street in that moment of falling. I watched his bare legs twitch as he bit a hole in his lip to keep silent. He licked blood, wincing, not spitting. Little sister stared and told me over and over, There was nothing I could say to another man's son. No truth trumps the adoration of a planet's moon, or the bright face of his own father calling him a man. His hand touched Tyler's shoulder, squeezed so hard the boy bit his mouth, and smiled. When he rode away from the sidewalk stain little sister trailed behind just fast enough, for it not to catch her.