"Super"
All little boys are obsessed with superheroes, whether the superhero be a gadget-wielding magnate or an anthropomorphic turtle. Little boys eat, drink, live, and dream their favorites. All that said, Sean’s fascination with superheroes was unique. Yes, he showed the typical signs: he wore Superman, his favorite, on his lunchbox, on his underwear, on his shoes, everywhere. He even sported a little Superman cape that a grandmotherly neighbor had made for him, and he would never take it off willingly. It flapped behind him wherever we went, and I had to sneak it away and wash it in the middle of the night to keep it bright red. Crazy as that sounds, I was glad to do it because Sean was a special boy. Apart from the rampant insignia he had all over him, Sean was a superhero on the inside as well. We would walk the streets, and he would display uncommon kindness to all we passed, especially those that appeared upset. They wouldn’t give me the time of day, having no interest in an adult’s comments or judgments, even though I had none to give. But they would open up to Sean. Faces previously void of happiness would brighten and blossom into smiles as the little boy with the red cape approached them. Sean loved to be out among the people, so we walked the streets a lot. Eventually, Sean started tugging on my hand. “Mommy,” he would say, “can I have a quarter?” I used to think it was for candy or for an arcade game. I would give him a quarter, and he would hold it in his little hand for several blocks before approaching a homeless person’s cup and dropping it inside; if the person were asleep, he would set it in quietly. Sean could sense people in need from a mile away. Even after I figured out his little game, I kept giving him the quarters. How could I not? It made him happy, and it made them happy. I could not bear the look on his face were I were to tell him “no,” and he couldn’t bear walking past a needy cup without placing a quarter in it. My son has always been a better person than me, which is why I don’t lament that I never see him anymore. . . .
Around the age of twelve, Sean started to change. Our whole world started to change. Eerie movements, strange happenings: oddness seemed to orbit our household; I could feel it humming all around me. Sean kept himself hidden and his transformations secret for as long as he could, but he could hide the secret no more. “Mom, I need to show you something,” he had said. The first time he moved a piece of furniture without touching it, I fainted. And with unhuman speed, Sean caught me and placed me on the couch. When I awoke, hours later, he was sitting calmly in the chair across from me; I no longer saw the boy I knew. He was still special, more so, and still so healthy and full of life, but indeed different. You could look at him and sense it. He was as solid as a rock, his strength reverberating in his words and his movements. He grew and grew quickly from that day forward until, at the age of eighteen, he towered over me and all of his classmates. At graduation, the other parents asked Sean what he wanted to do moving forward. He had been the school’s leading athlete and its top scholar. The world was his oyster, and everyone waited on bated breath to know what Sean would do with his abilities, the true extent of which people outside our home did not know. From the moment I awoke on that couch that one day, Sean and I both knew the path he was headed down. I wanted to convince him to stay at home, but I knew I couldn’t. The day after graduation, he walked out of our house and into the world, and I did not chase after him for I was not afraid for him. I cried at the kitchen table, yes, but not out of fear. He was still my little boy, but I knew he was something more and needed more than a simple life could offer. Shortly thereafter, reports were abound in the city of an unidentified vigilante assisting in conflicts, aiding in arrests, even dumping fugitives at the doors of police precincts.
It has been 22 years since he left home, and I have not laid my eyes on Sean once since that day. However, he says he keeps both of his eyes on me at all times. He reaches out to me every week or so, always by phone, never in person; he says this is more for my safety, not his. He never specifically tells me of his exploits, talking only in general terms of how much there is for him to do, how much dirt needs to be swept up from the world. By following national and international news I can see where he has been; years ago I started keeping track with push-pins on a world map, and it is nearly full. I trust this is why he doesn’t have time to see me, and I’m doing my best to understand that. Just the other day, a woman dumped her entire bad day on me, and I could not be upset. Her quarrel was minuscule (I had accidentally bumped into her on the sidewalk), and it was not my responsibility to bend to her and appease her, beyond a simple “sorry.” I made my contribution to society; I make it everyday. When friends from the neighborhood ask me how Sean is doing, I tell them he is doing great, placing another piece in the made-up story of him that I craft as I go: my single, childless, lawyer-son living here and jet-setting there. “I can hardly keep up with him,” I say with feigned exhaustion, picturing the little boy tugging me down the sidewalk. “He’s just Sean, you know?” They always nod in understanding. When you’re a parent, your child’s successes are not your own, but the pride is all yours. You stand back and wonder where they got those qualities, that drive, that inspiration. You search within yourself to see if the answer to them is within you, and it’s not, not wholly. Who knows where it comes from: the heavens, some distant world, some perfect alignment of the universe and its moments. It doesn’t matter. You just have to stand back and smile in loving amazement.
Around the age of twelve, Sean started to change. Our whole world started to change. Eerie movements, strange happenings: oddness seemed to orbit our household; I could feel it humming all around me. Sean kept himself hidden and his transformations secret for as long as he could, but he could hide the secret no more. “Mom, I need to show you something,” he had said. The first time he moved a piece of furniture without touching it, I fainted. And with unhuman speed, Sean caught me and placed me on the couch. When I awoke, hours later, he was sitting calmly in the chair across from me; I no longer saw the boy I knew. He was still special, more so, and still so healthy and full of life, but indeed different. You could look at him and sense it. He was as solid as a rock, his strength reverberating in his words and his movements. He grew and grew quickly from that day forward until, at the age of eighteen, he towered over me and all of his classmates. At graduation, the other parents asked Sean what he wanted to do moving forward. He had been the school’s leading athlete and its top scholar. The world was his oyster, and everyone waited on bated breath to know what Sean would do with his abilities, the true extent of which people outside our home did not know. From the moment I awoke on that couch that one day, Sean and I both knew the path he was headed down. I wanted to convince him to stay at home, but I knew I couldn’t. The day after graduation, he walked out of our house and into the world, and I did not chase after him for I was not afraid for him. I cried at the kitchen table, yes, but not out of fear. He was still my little boy, but I knew he was something more and needed more than a simple life could offer. Shortly thereafter, reports were abound in the city of an unidentified vigilante assisting in conflicts, aiding in arrests, even dumping fugitives at the doors of police precincts.
It has been 22 years since he left home, and I have not laid my eyes on Sean once since that day. However, he says he keeps both of his eyes on me at all times. He reaches out to me every week or so, always by phone, never in person; he says this is more for my safety, not his. He never specifically tells me of his exploits, talking only in general terms of how much there is for him to do, how much dirt needs to be swept up from the world. By following national and international news I can see where he has been; years ago I started keeping track with push-pins on a world map, and it is nearly full. I trust this is why he doesn’t have time to see me, and I’m doing my best to understand that. Just the other day, a woman dumped her entire bad day on me, and I could not be upset. Her quarrel was minuscule (I had accidentally bumped into her on the sidewalk), and it was not my responsibility to bend to her and appease her, beyond a simple “sorry.” I made my contribution to society; I make it everyday. When friends from the neighborhood ask me how Sean is doing, I tell them he is doing great, placing another piece in the made-up story of him that I craft as I go: my single, childless, lawyer-son living here and jet-setting there. “I can hardly keep up with him,” I say with feigned exhaustion, picturing the little boy tugging me down the sidewalk. “He’s just Sean, you know?” They always nod in understanding. When you’re a parent, your child’s successes are not your own, but the pride is all yours. You stand back and wonder where they got those qualities, that drive, that inspiration. You search within yourself to see if the answer to them is within you, and it’s not, not wholly. Who knows where it comes from: the heavens, some distant world, some perfect alignment of the universe and its moments. It doesn’t matter. You just have to stand back and smile in loving amazement.