Sometimes it’s hard to know what a hero is. Only a very small fraction of us has ever had someone catch our hand before we fell to our physical death. And we’ve all had so many people in our lives teach us so many things.
So for me, it’s a certain person who makes real life feel possible, as if becoming rich doesn’t matter, and true fame can be acquired easily if you’re able to plant seeds in someone’s heart. We disagree on so many levels, but at the same time, we’re so much the same. Especially the little things. We love to cry, for example.
He’s the one who agreed to buy that crazy purple bath pouf hanging in his shower, the one who teaches me the dirty words I need to know, the one who will take me places with the music blasting loud like we’re original gangsters, even if we aren’t.
And, no, he didn’t teach me all I know. Maybe I’ve even taught him a thing or two. I have my secrets, he’s got his, and it’s a good thing we can’t read each other like open books, because that just might ruin everything good between us.
But he has helped my heart open up to the dreams and the music and the pain and the infiniteness of this world. He has helped me realize my dreams, even if they are so different from his own. He taught me that it’s okay to be immature and laugh at stupid things sometimes. And when he leaves to go and start his own life, a part of me will follow, and, hopefully, he’ll never forget his sister, like I’ll never forget my brother.