He grew up elsewhere; some people had their qualms about this, their two-cents to put in. But it didn't matter to her; they were in love then, and they are in love now. And nothing is ever going to change that.
So then he came here, and it took some getting used to. Changes always take some getting used to. Her parents almost scared him back onto the plane, but he survived. More than that: he thrived. There were some downs, but mostly there were ups. And that's what counts.
Then they were born; first it was a "her," and second it was a "him." And on the rust-colored rug they played: the three of them; he and his two, while she watched and warned about broken bones and being too rough. "Horsey," it was called; and they loved him for it.
He was their hero.
Then they all got older, and the game had to stop. But other games and non-games began to take its place, so there was no real loss in the end. As there really never is, in the end. They all went to meets, games; more meets than games, but the love was the same. It was the kind of love that gives in so many different ways; forever growing and taking new form; teaching all in various ways at various times.
And his first saved some experiences for him, like watching movies only when he could watch them too, until she learned later she didn't have to. He might experience it through her later, in words (she could never stop the flow of words). Or they might both just experience it another time. Together. The movies are another link between them, between his first and him -- love for X-Men (especially Wolverine, on her part); love for Superman; love for Batman; love for Spider-Man. Love for each other.
There were many jokes. Some didn't work so well, because he was always a little terrible at telling them. Oh, sorry -- "my bag" -- he was REALLY terrible at telling them. But that was okay; it made it funnier, it made it a new joke that they could keep between them all. So really, his jokes did work well, but not in the way one might expect. In a different way, a way that grew with them all, one that took different forms and peeked out from behind the corner every now and then. It had to do with the love that fed them all, and so it's hard to explain to people on the outside.
One joke was that he could be a ninja. He could be a sort of superhero, just like Superman and Batman and Spider-Man. He laughed about it, and so did they. But his first saw something else: in the shameless, yet bashfully and sheepish laughter and grins; in the statements said between such laughter -- "you guys always make fun of me!" Maybe it was because of her overly-analytical mind, always working itself into new conclusions. Maybe it was because there really was some truth to what she saw, to what she heard. In her eyes, it was as though he yearned to be able to fly, to have laser-vision, to jump from building to building. "The world is my gym!" He yearned to be a real-life superhero.
But what he didn't see, what his first saw, was that he is a superhero already, but a different kind. Like their love and like his jokes, he is a kind one might not expect. He didn't seem to know it; or maybe he knew once, but had forgotten as they got older. He is a superhero that is even better than all the others that they saw, on the films and in the books. He could do things that no one else could, things that were better -- cooler -- than jumping from building to building. Things that mattered just as much as saving the whole world in two hours. (Or even "24" hours, depending on how you define "superhero.") In fact, he was faster. He could save the world of his first in a matter of minutes, with just a few words; with just a conversation; with just a simple look. With just a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
He is the best superhero in the world. He is something no one else could ever be.
He is her father.
