monsters in the hall

I'm out in the yard, my daughter inside (potty break), she yells for help, shrill staccato. Sounds of terror rush to my feet. I leap, run, jump, fly, "Where are you? I'm coming!" Find her huddled on the toilet, sounds of monsters in the hall still ringing in her ears. She's safe. My breath catches in my chest, eyes swim with dizzy distortion. We hold each other, smile. I may pass out, yet now I know I can still do it. I had wondered, worried the weakness from treatment had made its way to the mama bear adrenaline source. Could I still carry her for miles, running crazy with speed through the dark forest to safety? Could I protect her from the evil intruder with superhero strength? Could I lift her to safety, while hanging one handed from a mile high cliff? Could I scale a burning building and pull her from its deadly fire? Yep. I'll die afterwards, consumed with chemical pain and fatigue, but "afterwards" is just fine. I still strong baby.