Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, we have to go back–
Many many years;
Half of a century, plus one.
But who’s counting?

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, I have to go back–
Way way back
To a life that is no longer mine.
But who’s noticing?

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, I have to remember–
An empty yard by the street
With rose bushes lining the house.
But who smelled them?

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, I have to get into the mind of a kid
Who was the third daughter:
The third girl but at last the darling had arrived.
Finally, the son was here.

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, I cannot–
I cannot go back, cannot remember, cannot comprehend
Why God left me alone, with no hero, no savior.
But He wasn’t finished yet.

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Jesus was mine.
To answer why is beyond my comprehension–
But He was there, watching and waiting, biding His time,
Until He stepped in, stepped up, and revealed the answer of
Why every seven-year-old needs a superhero.

{The first sentence is from Fredrik Backman’s my grandmother asked me to tell you she’s sorry.}