Mama's Superhero

Mama tells me I’m her superhero. She tells me I am strong, brave, and kind, even when I don’t feel like it. She says, “That’s ok, I’ll help. I can be brave for you until you can stand against the monsters.” She is brave for me a lot.

Then there’s one night when she can’t be brave anymore. She sits by my bed in the hospital and she cries when she thinks I’m asleep. It scares me. I want to hide under the blankets and block out all the noises. The machines beeping and the lights humming and Mama crying. But is that what a superhero would do?

Mama calls me a superhero. But she’s the one that holds me up so I can fly. She’s strong.

She holds my hand when it’s dark out and keeps the monsters away. She’s brave.

She hugs me tight when I hurt, and doesn’t let go until the hurt stops. She’s kind.

She is a superhero, just like she tells me I am. She taught me to be strong, brave, and kind.

I don’t hide under the blankets. Instead, I squeeze her hand. For her, I can be brave. For Mama, I can be a superhero.