Everything is mythical when you're seven years old; fathers, mothers, Santa, God, the alleged protective powers of a gold medallion. It's not that certain things seem larger than life, it's just, life seems larger. But the world keeps spinning and in a thousand tiny surrenders or sometimes in one fell swoop, what you'd seen as truly mythical, you learn is merely myth.
The good news, if you can call it that, is that ultimately you find other myths to believe in, and other men as well. You see the myth for what it is, close up and in it's bones, smaller and greater and more like you than you'd care to admit. It never the less leaves you, always, every single time, sitting foolish on the doorstep awaiting it's return. No matter how much your brain tells you he's not worthy, he's just a myth, he is not coming back, in your heart, your strongest wish is that he would appear again, rose in hand, ready, willing and able to talk to you again; wanting to take you to that mythical magical place he came from and make everything alright again.
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