My father was no superman. He didn't fly and soar through the clouds with a red cape that looked like fluttering wings against the breeze. But like a hero, he bleeds.
His gentle hands- bruised and calloused from working eleven hours a day. He rises every morning with the sun, ready to spend another day under the scorching heat. And every night, he falls down to his knees- tired, with his head hanging down as he whispers a prayer to the moon, hoping that the Divine is listening. He asks for more strength to keep going, as his daughter and sons are yet to reach their dreams. Then the following day, he wakes, as if yesterday's exhaustion was washed away with barely eight hours of sleep.
My mother was never shatterproof.
Behind closed doors is a woman who cries out and begs for her children's future. Her plans were so much more than a lunch menu, no- her plans consisted of fallbacks for when we fail. Her birthday wishes were always filled with our names. For every fall, she's always there to tell us to get back up again and go on. It always broke her heart to let us fight our battles alone, so she makes sure to always be there with arms wide open after every defeat, and a proud smile after every win.
So, if you're going to ask me if I could live a life without them someday, the answer is yes.
They lived to make sure that I could, and that's the greatest thing they could ever leave me with.
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