In todays world, we have the desire to be something greater than normal. We have an compulsion to become super heroes or the unbeknownst protagonist of an epic tale. This is why we pack ourselves into large cineplexes, stuffing our mouths with gallons of soda and overpriced buckets of butter, salt, and popped corn. It's this urge that leaves us huddled under the covers with flashlights, wishing for one last word to make our understanding of the story complete. We often forget the pain of these characters, who have been born of blood and happenchance. Just as in the discovery of penicillin, these heroes are thrust into their destiny by a unanticipated moment in time. They are victims of the human experience, which elevates them to become better than human. If they do not become better, they at least become more aware. I too have an unlikely origin story, albeit, I have not grown any closer to wearing a cape and underwear outside of my pants. (At least not without the ploy of copious amounts of alcohol.) Growing up I was child of words, speaking my first one at around 6 months. The running joke in my family is that I haven't shut up since. In all these years it still amazes me how well words connect the threads of life. They are there, floating like droplets in the rushing river of time. They are waiting, wanting, wishing for someone to pluck them as if from a cherry tree, place them into their mouth, and spit their seeds into the orchard of existence. There is magic in words that many seek to understand. Like music and other forms of art, words have the ability to reach someone and touch them deeper than any physical hand could. They can wretch the heart, enlighten the mind, and elevate the soul, all in a matter of a sentence. When I was a boy I had been assigned the task of writing a poem for my least favorite class, English. Although I had not stopped talking since before I could walk, I did not understand the value of words. Where were the empirical facts for me to rely upon? Why should I have to spend energy on the lesser studies? I was a man of science, or at least I was an 11 year old boy of science. In true Einsteinian fashion, I had already experienced the prestige of attending 3 State Science Fairs. A boy of my stature had no desire to mess around with pointless artsy, prose. I went to my father to express my plight. To my surprise he spoke of the deep love he had for poetry and writing. He let me know the awesomeness of the poetic devices. In that moment I saw my father not as a stark “man's man”, who had spent his working hours on the floor of a GM factory and his time off, riding his motorcycle to and from fishing trips and gun ranges. He sat back, smiled a Cheshire grin, and plucked a concept from the air. He turned his loom of rhythm and rhyme and began weaving a wordy, web of enchantment. He wrote a quick story that personified death and it sent chills across my spine. Over the next several years he continued to show me the power held within words. He told me parables of love and loss and the life between them. He made sure I understood their purpose, along with the importance of keeping my own word true. Over the coming years we sat down at the feast of life and gorged ourselves on Shakespeare, the Bible, and the wisdom in fairy tales. We bonded over a love for words as he explained to me that just by writing ideas down, you give them life. He taught me that in life, just as in the great stories of any age, the words must resolve themselves for their story to be complete. Like a lake stirred up by a violent storm, the dirt would need to settle and allow it to once again become a calm, clear, comforting place. Over the years I watched as his health declined. He was not able to do the things I once thought defined him. The thing he was left with were the words we bonded over and because he was a man of pageantry and showmanship, even in the end he taught me a last lesson about the power words have. Being the Patriarch the one thing he loved as much as words was his family. He said his last desire was to get the entire family together for Christmas one last time. On Christmas day after my 16th Birthday he was able to do just that. That Christmas we didn't exchange presents and joy. Sitting in the hospice waiting room, we unwrapped our hearts and shared with each other the gift of tears and mourning. This was the last time we were all together in the same room. My sister, brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins all went out that night set on honoring his life and memory. We did so with words. It's strange and comforting to me that I can pinpoint the exact moment I was given the gift of words. It was on that day I was bitten by my radioactive spider. It took losing my father, for me to understand my purpose of this gift. We all have such a unique experience and we must share it with each other and the best way to do this is…with words.