The road was straight.
Potholes were occasionally hit.

Then suddenly there was a fierce turn to the left.

Without warning, darkness surrounded.

Without warning, the road became different.

Without warning, the path strayed.

 

Soccer was my thing.

I felt free.

I felt strong.

 

Game after game my head 

landed on the ground,

without warning.

 

My dog would crawl up high.

He surrounded my head with his

warm

tender

sweet

hairy

body.

 

Then a pounding elapsed.

BOOM
BOOM
BOOM

My head would go never pausing to breathe.

 

Nothing invaded my life

until 

a doctor ordered an MRI.

 

It turned out two tumors

lived in my head

as if it was a luxurious apartment

expanding, making themselves at home.

 

How was I to find inspiration to fight?

How was I to breathe again peacefully?

How was I to be okay?

 

My body shriveled.

My hair disappeared.

My hope left for a better life.

 

Then another car merged

onto my highway.

The power of being vulnerable

suddenly clear as crystal.

 

His name was Sean

and mighty a fight he had.

The chances of survival equal to

winning the lottery twice

with the same number.

 

Now he climbs

the seven summits

and 

one day I hope to go

with him.

 

War stories make me cry.

They also make me want to try.

Why?

 

Pain demands to be felt

as suffering demands to inspire.

 

I live not for myself

but to hopefully let

my story inspire others

as Sean’s did to me.

 

Because the imperfect hero 

is 10 times as strong as the

straight road hero.

 

Tears give me a reason

to live

prouder

louder

and as a pathfinder.