On My Shoulder.

When we're little our parents are something of our own personal superheroes. They have superhuman strength or telepathy, but undoubtedly, the amazing ability to save you when you need to be rescued. For me it was when I would trip and fall, usually resulting in a scraped knee or an otherwise seemingly fatal incident. Out of nowhere my dad would come to my rescue and pick me up. Once I was safe in his arms I would throw my arms around his neck, at which time he would sing a single line from a song by Paul Anka that would somehow make me stop crying, "Put your head on my shoulder". It's short. A simple phrase that could be said anywhere at any time by anyone. But for me it was a healing device, knowing that there was a shoulder that I could cry on until everything was better. It was his superpower.

As we grow older, however, we slowly come into realization our parents own mortality. We learn that they weren't superheroes at all. But shit, they were real good at faking it. Or, even worse, they were good at hiding what it was about them that didn't make them superheroes. We learn their fears and insecurities and weaknesses. We see them cry and lose control of everything around them. We see them experience loss and failure and sickness. And then we're left wondering, who do I turn to when my heroes can't even save themselves? And we see that even the mighty can fall. The fathers that had the strength of a thousand men can break their bones and cringe in pain with every breath that they take. We see that the mothers that could handle any task you throw at them could also struggle and fall into addiction and depression. And all we can do is still look to them in adoration as if they had all the answers and could save us from every mishap that we face. It was hard going through it myself, but it's even harder watching my family go through it.

I'm always scared when I go to that house. I was scared the two nights that I stayed there, scared whenever grandma left the house to run an errand. That maybe something might happen when the kids were sleeping that I would have to face by myself. Scared that I would be the one to explain what happened. I'm not sure what terrified me more: when I heard coughing from his room or when it was completely silent.

I can't remember the last time that I cried on my dad's shoulder. I'm sure when it happened I didn't know it would be the last time, either. But I have a feeling that the next time it happens I won't be crying because I scraped my knee or had a bad dream. It'll be because we'll be facing our own lives as we are to take them. I dread it more than anything.

I'm not sure what we're praying for. But shit, it must be good.

Kelsey Rae