In the Ilocano epic of Lam-ang

In the Ilocano epic of Lam-ang, 
the hero grows at the same rate 
as the plant his mother tucked 
into the soil when he was born. 

Like other epic heroes, he travels 
to a distant town to win the heart 
of a fabled beauty, but on the way 
he stops to bathe in the river. 

Even the grime on his body must 
have been epic—all the fish die,
or at least are knocked senseless.
The thing about heroes is this

expectation that they are larger 
than life, more suited to the epic 
struggles the rest of us would not 
be able to vanquish. I wonder

how many baskets of bitter-
melon he could polish off
in one sitting, how many 
coronavirus strains bounce  

off his super-immune system.
To my knowledge, every hero
has a mother who wants nothing
more than his safety (perhaps even 

at the expense of happiness). Why
do all the books talk about the tragic
flaw of the hero, but never about
the tragic wound his mother has

to endure? It takes an epic amount
of resolve not to crumble in the face of 
catastrophe, which is sometimes called 
fate, and other times just life.