Even Grown Ups Have Heroes

Summer Seattle rain settles on skin

like mist on blades of grass, neither

seeping in, nor dripping away.  That day,

I thought I was the only child in line

outside the opera house, waiting with you

to watch Chris Parkening pluck strings,

make music, move mountains.

It was a long line.

I watched water whisper to streetlamps,

shifted foot to foot, impatiently dropped

your hand.  You teased that there might not

be any tickets left by the time we

reached the door.  You'd never really teased

before, so I scowled and simmered

while you chuckled and grinned.

We must have looked like some surreal

portrait—a tall jester in a button-up shirt

beside a small, grumpy sentinel in rain.

We sat in the front row.

I don't recall a single strumming sound,

but echoes from the opera house

carried me through youth, because someone

I loved as much as you

trusted me

with front row seats and a hero's legacy.

Because those tender, teasing words

washed years from your face like rain.