With no clue, we find our heroes among the tall legs of the world. While the roll of the chosen grows and shrinks, curiosity drives me to consider the qualities of this elite group.
Coming up to seven decades, my heroes have seen a sea change, but as a child of the 50s, I own the expectation of my father to be one. I can only imagine how difficult this burden was for him to carry.
Today, I see into the heart of this hero we craft so ably before we can talk. We project our image upon the person or object of desire that is to save us from our fears and failings without realizing we will always be our own hero, that we are the only ones who can approve of our worthiness.
Thirty years after my father’s passing, I choose his laughter – so deep from his heart it brought a smile from the most curmudgeon. His voice, when he read his most beloved stories to us snuggled safely beside him. His feelings at the ready, whether happy or sad. His helpfulness to all children, his own or not, when he taught us to swim, fish, ride a bike or play ball. His faith, tenuous at best, remained a shiny aspiration beneath all the smoke and mirrors of bravado.
Let’s choose to laugh, be the resonating voice of comfort, the connection, and helpmate to all, with enough faith to be satisfied with the hero we are, knowing the stars in our eyes belong to us.
© Amada Reza
March 2021