My Hero

I am going to share with you the story of a hero. The cape he wore wasn’t like what you’d see in the movies like Superman. It was hidden under his dirty jeans, calloused hands, and worn out button-down shirt. His eyes always screamed fatigue, yet when the end of the day had drawn to a close, he would always come back and tuck me in. The gentle smile that spread across his face reminded me that my hero had returned. I’d forget about the beatings.

With his gentle pat on the top of my head, I was reborn again. I was alive again. I was free again, if only for the night. We remember the worst in people, most of the time. (Sometimes the dark can obscure the light) It is only those few rare gems that stand apart from the others and challenge us to “See them” in a different light.

My hero would come and whisk me away from the man who would play with me like a doll and leave me feeling a kind of dirty you can’t wipe clean. My hero would tell me bedtime stories and jokes, and when he told his jokes, I’d laugh so hard that my belly ached. The rumble in my tummy served as a reminder that my hero was here again. He was bold and brave once more. I would follow this man to the ends of the earth.

I remember how he captivated an audience with his charm, and the room would light up when he chose to tell his stories. I wanted to be like him so badly that I started to tell jokes myself. That’s when I realized something….I wasn’t funny. I still vividly remember sitting amongst a group of girls that were getting ready to play jump rope and I started talking about the sand under our feet leading to China. In my mind it was the funniest story in the world. I was cackling at my own joke. They just looked at me with rolled eyes and annoyed features. “Had I really not inherited his humor?”

In every story of a hero there’s an enemy. Alcohol was a villain for this hero. It often won, and when it won, my hero fell. He vanished and fear settled in until the fog in his eyes was lifted. Those nights when the alcohol had consumed my hero, I cowered, afraid to show my face so I hid in the shadows. I hid and I listened to the sounds of cracking and the sobs that would follow.

The tomorrow would always bring me back to my hero. The sunken eyes would fill with renewed vibrance and determination “Work hard, Jen and good things will come to you,” that’s what he said. His words played like a mantra and soon I had become my own hero.

Standing tall and proud, I said “Work hard, and good things will come to you,” I taught this to my children, and I taught this to those who were struggling in their lives. With pep in my step I told stories and tall tales. I laughed so hard that my daughter came stomping into the room with a “I will murder you in your sleep” stare and simply said “Shhhh,” It caused me to giggle even harder as I attempted to quiet myself.

It’s hard to imagine the impact that you leave on the world. I’d learn that my hero often gave to charity and helped those in need. I’d discover that he’d spend hours restoring furniture only to give it away to those less fortunate. The hero that didn’t wait for the world to hand him something but instead went back and got his GED so he could get a better job.

My hero wasn’t perfect. One day, he stormed out of our thanksgiving dinner. We didn’t speak for nine months. Those months that we’d never get back would be lost forever to time. His pride wouldn’t let him say sorry and my pride wouldn’t forgive him without an apology.

It would be my son who’d bridge the gaping hole between us. His humility would force us to reconnect and just like that we had forgotten why we hadn’t spoken. The anger faded and the pain along with it.

The cancer came fast and consumed him. My hero smiled at me and with pride he told me how proud he was of who I had become. He called me funny. Could you imagine? Me? Funny?

Stunned, my mouth dropped open and I wore the face of someone that just had a pie thrown at her. “What do you mean?” I managed to get out. “You are always telling funny stories,” and that was it. The singular moment when all of the pieces had fallen together.

My hero faded after his watch has ended. He passed the torch onto me and though I would choose to not become the hero to fear I did choose to become the hero that didn’t wear a cape. Instead, I like to wear dresses and heels because every hero needs to look their best.