I can walk without my cane.

I can walk without my cane.

I can walk without my cane. 

Leaning on a willing, loving arm, or trailing my fingers over walls and chairs. 

My knees are not always weak or painful, my hip does not always complain when it bears weight. 

I am not always dizzy or clumsy. 

Though without my cane I stub my toes more often, bump the same tender bruise on my thigh into the kitchen table. 

I don't fall downstairs, though that falling feeling in the pit of my stomach happens sometimes and I clammily grasp at banisters and walls, taking a beat before trying to continue.

Without my cane I tend to fall upstairs, catching my foot and stumbling in embarrassment. 

I can get up out of a chair without my cane, though it takes me longer and I might have to ask for help if it is really low.

 Sometimes just standing is painful and the cane does not magic this away. 

Sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other, just keeping going is too much. 

So much I can not think, let alone buy groceries and I have to sit in a chair, either on the outside on a bench, or inside with wheels and disapproving glares.
I can walk without my cane but it is so much more tiring. 

It is so much more frightening, painful and difficult than with it.
I do not use it for pity. 

Or sympathy. 

Or the sideways glaces of people whom have never fallen over nothing and bashed their face. 

In fact for the longest time I only used it at home where no-one would see, preferring to stay home than gather the glaces, and stares.
I can walk without my cane, but I shouldn't have to explain all this to you. 

I can walk without my cane but it makes my life easier, less painful, less confining. 

I can walk without my cane but I don't because I need it for when I can't and I never know when that will be.