She was the Irish girl with a lilting step she inherited from her father. The talkative tomboy with a reckless smile whose eyes lit up at the first sign of mischief (still do). Born a fighter. When she was 10 she filled page after page of construction paper with drawings of Air Force jets that she hoped to someday fly. When she was 13 she borrowed Carl Sagan from the library and mispronounced infrared but loved his poetry of possibility. She didn't understand when the mother of the kids she babysat laughed at her answer to what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up; an astrophysicist or a blue angel.
She had no conception of what could not be accomplished.
Lately I've been thinking of that kid most every day. Running lap after lap at too fast a pace just to keep up with the boys, to make the men's time. Needing the amazement and the congratulations and the whispers and the stares from the others when I finish above the men's average. Scoring 100% on every test or not being satisfied. Drawing my sidearm and firing 2 rounds into the preferred area in 1.14 seconds and still thinking of ways I could do it faster. Reading ahead, researching weight displacement and muscle control to not permit my size to be my limit; pushing, lunging, grappling my way to unquestioned competency.
Accepting no limits.
I can still see her, when I look in the mirror. She's in my eyes somewhere, and in my smile when some thing's afoot. She reminds me to be stoic, steadfast and unquestioning in my ability, and I offer her an unflinching resolve and the spirit of a warrior. There is nothing we cannot do.
Hang on tightly, let go lightly.
About Me
- porfiry
- The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure that it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.