I dream of being a hero.
Of running brave into front lines.
Of mopping blood from wounds and calling in triage instructions.
I dream of hearing people’s worst fears, of uncovering the secret lies that have held them hostage.
And I dream of telling the stories that will reveal truth once and for all.
I dream of glory.
I dream of heroism.
I will simply wake up (in my comfortable bed, in my comfortable home), and greet four little people as I help them begin their day.
I will hold hands and wipe away tears. I will feed and bathe and comfort.
I will teach manners and respect.
I will stay calm through defiance and anger and grief.
I will be here, for the little people whose faces turn towards me as flowers turn towards the sun.
I will be present.
This is not the heroism I have dreamt of.
But I choose to believe,
that this too requires great valor.
That to be present in the mundane and to bring into it, magic.
Is to be the star of an extraordinary story.
It is the job of making what was once almost dead, come alive.
And what else were heroes made to do?