Carousel of Horrors: How my mom lost her superpowers and I found mine

When I was five my mom took me to a park with an irresistible carousel. It was the old-fashioned thing of little girl dreams. Pastel colours that had been kissed by the sun for years. The tinkle of piano over tinny speakers invoking nostalgia for a time I had never lived.
I hopped on. My chubby little legs hugging my horse tight.
But once astride, the dream quality took on a sinister tinge. My little legs couldn’t reach the stirrups. The horse seemed impossibly high and the toothy smiles of all the animals seemed more threatening than welcoming.
“Come on with me, mom!” I cried.
She smiled and waved no. This was my adventure.
“Please!” I could feel the gears groaning and shifting in place, preparing to turn.
My mom must have heard the fear in my voice because at the last second, she leapt on. As her feet landed on the platform, the carousel began its circuit, throwing her off. She flew through the air, crashing into a cement garbage can.
I didn’t get the full picture because I was already turning, only able to see her for one quarter of the rotation. A crowd of people gathered. She was sitting up but clearly dazed, clutching a bloodied elbow.
I began to wail. My mother, my protector, was hurt and I could not help her! I was stuck on a carousel going round and round, forced to witness her pain in what seemed like some kind of punishment from the vengeful Greek gods of yore.
But like all good stories of punishment from the gods, there was also a moral. My mother would try to protect me from everything, even if it was only in my imagination. But she was not immortal. She was not immune to pain. And at only five I had a brief flash of our role reversal. At that tender age I realized that one day I would be taking care of her. And that when she cried out in fear, I would be willing to launch myself on her nightmares too.