My grandfather used to tell me that every child deserves a hero, and that I was no different from any other child my age, and so I, too, needed a hero of my own. Every child deserves someone older, stronger and wiser to protect and cherish him or her.
And so I chose my grandfather to be that someone whom I could call “my hero.”
Growing up, I believed whatever Lolo told me.
I believed him when he told me that I could go to the moon if I were to ride a watermelon cut in half. I believed him when he told me that the seed of an orange would grow inside my intestines if I accidentally ate them. I believed him when he told me that giant lice would carry me off to their nest in the mountains if I did not take a bath after eating lunch.
But the last time he told me he was tired and that he would not be with us anymore, I doubted his words.
Then he left us. And so I believed again.
His absence made me realize that even heroes, no matter how strong they are, cannot run away from the fingers of death. Heroes do not stay forever. They grow old and die, leaving us with nothing but a bag of memories filled with lessons in life.
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Ian Joseph Angel, 19, is a first year philosophy student at the Maria Assumpta Seminary in Cabanatuan City.