I am a hero in my mind. In my mind I have rescued lives, in my mind I have battled the forces of evil and won. But yet, what am I really? What has the world truly borne in me? I think I know it: all the accomplishments I have done which only I partook of, deep within myself, which nobody else saw — it was as if I were a child given some toys so that he would stop crying.
I think the greatest success I would have if I were to have a child of my own would be that on some secret day far into his adult years, my child would look back and see. That he would see some little wisdom I imparted to him without he knowing it, not then: not as a youngster. That in his early days I would make him a hero in truth but just between he and I, and that would be forgotten as he grows away from constant nurture, the notion only to return at a distant date as an image of me, his father, winking.
