The Hero of This Story.

My
friend told
me that he didnt
believe n heroes. Comics
and fiction were just superstition. So
I told him a story and he sat and listened
A story about a hero who lived with fiction.
Wore a smile on her face, yet lived with a mission.
To and to serve. Loyal to her gracious commission.
It was a story about a hero who was there through the thick
and thin. Up and down. When I was lost, until the day I was found.
The sound of her voice: A familiar melody playing in the background.
From the day I was born, to the days my heart was torn, and finally to the
day I turned eighteen and we all realized too suddenly, that Im college bound.
This hero stood by my side, fought my fight, gave me wings so I could take flight
into the crystal clear night called my future. Into a long waited freedom. A freedom at last.
Forgetting the one who gave me wings, Id soar till from up here Id look at my past
And Id see a smaller version of me. Could this really be the same me thats flying?
The same me who thought he could do it on his own yet finds himself trying.
I see a smaller version of me picking flowers, holding the hand of his hero.
I see me in the backseat of the car, as she drives him to school, but hes
too cool for school so hes shouting and pouting every single day.
Putting up with years of his crying and sighing but yet she says
I love you. But now all he really cares about is what
he wants to wear and how he can style his hair. Yet
shes strong and so she plays along, so that maybe
one day he would realize how much she loves
him. But then he has already graduated.
After all the celebrations. And the
congratulations. He finally
understands. I finally
understand that the
hero of this story
is none other
than my
mother