The Princess with the Red Hair

Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear old t-shirts from your high school and scrunchies purchased from a spontaneous trip to Kansas City to see your favorite comedian. Some have fiery red hair that has never been colored or altered more than a basic haircut. Some give hugs that could change the world in thirteen seconds flat.

These heroes are the ones that show up within 10 minutes when you call and say that your husband is in the ICU and probably won’t make it. They are the ones that don’t leave your side for the next 6 days straight, holding you when you sob uncontrollably and even helping you into the en-suite bathroom shower to wash the tears and sweat from your frail body. They are the ones who kiss your husband’s lifeless hand and let him know that she will take care of me, and it’s okay if you have to go. They are the loving beings that then choose to sleep near you, even if only for a few hours at a time, every night since that horrible day, just so someone is there in case you wake up in a violent panic attack.

My hero has been my best friend since I was 7 years old. Our birthdays are exactly one month apart, falling equally in the dead of winter. Her name is The Princess with the Red Hair, or Amber, for short.

She is a living, breathing Angel who walks the Earth. I’m certain of it.

When I get to Heaven, I’m going to find Luke, give him the biggest hug and kiss that place has ever seen, and then march straight to God and thank Him for Amber.

I **may also have some very choice words with that guy regarding his reasoning for stripping me of my happiness and soulmate at age 25, but only after I thank him for my best gal.

**I will undoubtedly have these words. I said may for dramatic effect. He isn’t getting out of that conversation. Sorry, God.