Spider-Man.

I was writing a poem about the kids in front of me

their juice boxes, their birthday crowns,

their unselfconscious joy.

And then the confetti went off.

They clapped like it was thunder

and out popped Spider-Man,

as if summoned by my own becoming.

He did a back flip and the kids screamed.

One of them hugged his leg and wouldn’t let go.

And I almost cried.

Because of course it would be Spider-Man.

Not Batman with his money.

Not Superman with his invincibility.

Spider-Man—the anxious one. The underestimated one.

The one with the double life.

He didn’t say anything,

but I swear I heard it:

“You don’t have to be seen to be real.”

“You don’t have to be ready to show up.”

“Your power will never be loud, but it will be felt.”

He reminded me that heroism

isn’t about being above the crowd.

It’s about slipping on the suit even when you’re tired.

Even when you’re scared.

Even when you’d rather write about someone else’s courage.

I think he knew I was in the middle of a metamorphosis.

That I was shedding invisibility like old skin.

That I was learning to own the swing.

Spider-Man told me I could be both things:

Ordinary and radiant.

Tender and responsible.

Lonely and on the cusp of everything.

The kids kept dancing.

The juice boxes kept flowing.

And I went back to my poem

with a grin that felt like origin.