I must have been near the age of seven when I watched my dad become the hero of a boy’s life. My brother’s and I were outside riding our bikes with the neighborhood kids. Back then my brothers were the world to me. I being the youngest and the only girl was sent inside to get the black and yellow football. My sequins slip-on shoes shimmered in the glaring sun, and the yellow football even brighter in the sunlight. I stepped off my front porch and I saw my daddy picking up a limp boy from the harsh concrete. My dad continued to get farther and farther away from me with the familiar figure in his arms, heading towards the health department down the roads. Tears rushed down my face blurring the shimmering sequins and the yellow football into a techno kaleidoscope. When I could no longer see my daddy I turned to hide my sorrow in my home but instead I ran into the same person I thought was in my daddy’s arms. My brother. I didn’t know what happened. For many years afterward I thought I just had a terrible dream but then one day, we saw the boy at subway.


My dad and I were ordering our sandwiches when the Subway employee looked up and smiled as bright as the sun on the day so long ago where my shoes shimmered in the brightness. The man looked right at my dad and said, “You were my hero.” I learned the truth of that day years ago. The neighborhood boy had fallen of his bike and broken his arm. The boy was too hurt and too scared to move. My dad picked up the boy and carried him to safety. The boy had never forgotten my daddy, our hero.