A hand for change

Trinity Johnson

Contributing Writer

My family stands out from the rest. From my great-grandmother, all the way down to my brother and me, seizures are present in our bloodline. This curse would become a blessing on a certain day in the summer of 2006. Meemaw’s house, a place I called home, her front yard a second one; Toys were scattered, covered in the red clay that saturated the ground. My father held me, clasped tight within his arms while talking and laughing obnoxiously with my mother. He noticed that I hadn’t said a peven an eep, something unusual of me. Not exhale of air left my mouth. A blank expression was plastered upon my face and he was unsure of what to think or even say. My mother knew, though. A petit mal seizure is what it was called…she just did not know how to take action. A few houses up the street from my grandmothers house lived a man that my father had never gotten along with. I never knew what for and why, but the fact still stands that they were not the biggest fans of each other. He was a doctor; something that my parents knew I was in need of. So, my father did just what any other parent would do for their child. He did what was right and rushed me to that very man’s home. He was hopeful that he would be there, he just had to be.  I needed him to be. After banging on the door, the hero with no cape revealed himself from behind it, unmasked. My father explained the situation frantically and the man welcomed him inside in a hurry. One. Two. Three seconds is all it felt like and I was back and ready to play with those toys that were scattered around in the yard, still dirtied by that bright red clay I called home. Somehow I woke up in a bed that did not belong to me; a bed surrounded in peculiar and beeping machinery. My father and a man, a stranger to me, stood around my bed, my mother walked in shortly after I laid eyes on them. But, who was this man…and why was he here? “He helped you, Trin.” My father said. I looked at the mystery man and he returned the eye contact, smiling. I waved. He waved back. And with that he shook my father’s hand and left. Except, to this day, I wonder why he walked out of that room instead of flying. So, are enemies really enemies?  Or do all people truly treat their neighbors as they treat themselves? Regardless, I learned that day, at such an early age, that unlike what the comic books tell you… Not all heroes wear capes.

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