“You’re so much like me.
                               I’m sorry.” 
                   –    Ben Folds,
       Still Fightin’ It

You called again tonight, as you
have every night since I flew
you to your mom down south
to read.  We were following
Percy Jackson and his flock
together, on the winds of another
adventure, new myths woven from old
feathers–when without warning, or even
a word from an oracle, you
rolled–from his story into mine–
a whole other ball of wax. 

Yes.  Yes, I am readying my wings
for that flight.  Finally chasing
daylight to its, and my, origin
story.  Out West.  And yes, I know
I’ve shared the eighteen year old magick
and you—you believe.  Gods, you believe,
more than I, perhaps, believe,
any more. 

Such a tight and fine line, we try
to traverse, to cross, in the truth
of who we were crafted to be, as if
Daedelus, himself, designed
these fragile spirits, knit to the backs
of our hearts.  And I try

to guide you—to tell you a story
honoring where the V of our joint
pinions intersect—guarding tiny shoulders
that will, that do, hold up the sky
of this world.  But we are not Atlas.
And this reality can be too much. 
                                                              Too much.

How do I hold a thimble over the flame
of your sweet belief?  Fan the updraft
of worlds, far-flung, but no less real
to you—to me—despite all
the reasons and the seasons,
sunny days and rain, that will come,
for you—that came and yet come
for me?

How do I explain the joy or the beauty
in what may be, as you say, awkward
if, daring the sun, I find the sea
flooding my eyes and chest?  Yes. 

Yes, I am readying these wings
and I am lifting—lifting—from the labyrinth
of too many years away from home.  But
what can I say if the story takes its twist
and the climax is too brief, the action
falling to a close that falls
short of its prologue?

I want you, at least, to see
being the hero is less about vanquishing monsters
than mastering yourself, your fear,
the expectations of a world
intent on writing your story. 

My son:  A hero
doesn’t always get the girl.  He doesn’t
always, even, have the words
to explain why that’s okay. 

But he gets to decide
to try. 

He gets to decide
when it is time

for him
to fly.