“You could put a Spock ear in the prosthetic’s place!” my dad jokes.

Bupa grumbles, “Absolutely not,” as a hint of a smile crosses his face. We laugh at the absurdity of the proposal.

“Or we could cut Mousey’s ear off and use that!” Grandma Sandy offers. Emma clutches her hot pink stuffy to her chest. “No way!” she shouts.

I chuckle in response.

I remember earlier that spring. I heard the news.

“This summer for three days every week, Bupa is going to go through radiation,” my dad reported at the dinner table. I already knew that Bupa had to cut off part of his ear due to skin cancer, but this— this seemed unreal to me. This would destroy his summer, and mine also.

He always lived near me, in the summer. I was thrilled when he picked me up from school on early June afternoons, when we went fishing in his Boston Whaler that bounced along the waves, or when we simply sat in his grey Adirondack chairs on the lawn. I didn’t want to be with anyone else.

In late summer, he was done. After six weeks of radiation and chemotherapy, he was exhausted. When I visited, I cautiously stepped inside. The fire was alive even though it was late July, and I saw Bupa, who slouched on his special blue chair. His face was wan, and his arms thin as he raised them for an embrace.

In past years I rushed into the camp and into his open arms. He caught me easily and held me on his lap. I giggled and nestled against his chest. Now, it had changed: I peered into the old camp. He smiled right back at me. I leaped over the threshold and into his open arms. He groaned slightly under my weight.

“Charlotte, don’t be crazy; he’s still healing,” my dad reminded.

“Sorry,” I grumbled, and stepped back from Bupa.

Fall came, and hockey season started.

“Hello!”
“Yes, I’m great. How are you?”

“Well, I have a hockey game at eleven-twenty. Would you like to come?”
“Great—see you there!”
I plopped my dad’s black cell phone in the car’s dirty cup holder. “Bupa should be able to come!” I exclaimed. I hope we win our game today, I thought. I wanted to impress him.

I panted on the bench and stared into the small audience. I straightened up when I saw his tall form with my dad. He watched my game intently.

“Great job, Charlotte. I’m really impressed,” Bupa remarked after the game. He stood outside our car in the cool October air.
“Thank you for coming to my game!” I exclaimed, as I heaved my hockey gear into the trunk. I hugged him goodbye, and the absence of his ear was the only thing that gave me a clue he ever had cancer. “Bye-bye,” I smiled as I slipped into the passenger seat.

Back in his camp, we crowd around the fireplace.
“Have you heard about Bill?” My dad questions. He glances around the room as it goes silent. Bupa and Grandma Sandy nod solemnly.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Is he still, I guess, living?”
“Yes, he’s still living, though his cancer isn’t going away,” my dad responds.
We silence, and I slouch back into the chair, heart racing. That could have been Bupa.

Still, I can invite him to my hockey games. He’ll still be here to praise me on my hard work after a game. Still, I’ll be able to go fishing with him. Though we never catch anything, we simply enjoy each other’s company and the great day. Still, I’ll be able to joke with him, and place a smile on his wrinkled face.