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Holding Out For A Hero

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Between the linens and old perfumes,
I found a journal from my grandmother's teenage years.

It told of all her dreams,
And her siblings.
And it told of how she wanted a man to come and sweep her off her feet..

She married my grandfather almost 50 years ago.

In a church; forever pledged to each other by God.

He can barely hear anything now; he must read lips.
And because of this he doesn't go to church anymore.

But for Mother's Day this year,
He surprised my grandma by getting dressed in a suit; flowers in hand.

He would end up going to church with her that Sunday morning.
First time in almost 10 years..

I believe that my abulea got her hero.

I was never told why I couldn't open my mommy's dresser.
I just knew I couldn't.
But one day I decided that I needed to curb my curiosity.

I found diary-after-diary.
Love notes and unfinished thoughts..
It told about lost loves and friendships.
And the boy she thought she'd end up marrying.

It told of heart break.
And how she would deny him until marriage.

She was holding out for a hero.

Young love.
And it was beautiful to read in my mother's neat, precise, looping cursive.

I found a picture, tucked between the pages, of the boy's Mustang.
I could just imagine them laying on the hood at a drive-in,
Or looking up at the stars.
Just something that would take my mom away from her crazy world..

If only just for the night.

My mother many years later, married my father.
They met at the same Boys and Girl's Club of America; right near the ocean.

I've heard stories about how my dad one brought my mom a rose for Valentine's Day..

He told a little boy to give it to my mom.
My mom smiled and told him to go put it in water.
That little boy then ran back to my dad.

This gave my dad an idea..

"Go give it to her again."

He did this a dozen times.
A perfect dozen roses.

Until my mom realized that it was the same rose over-and-over.
She laughed it off and thought it was cute.

I knew that there was a reason she fell in love with him..

And then there is me...
I am not without story.

These writings are my diary; my story.

My children can only speculate.
Maybe they will think me odd.
Or maybe they will think I was an incredible young lady.

They will try to piece together the tattered memories that unwind my inner heart..

But I will know.

I will see all the dots connecting.
And all the memories coming back to me..
A replay button in my mind.

And maybe the one that I love with look over my shoulder and see this...

And see me...
And realize,
I need a hero.





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