My dad Superman cape isn’t just faded, tattered and ragged these days.

It’s gone.

All gone.

When you were young, my obviously metaphorical cape was bright and crisp and with it I could protect you from almost anything.

It was there to sop up tears from skinned knees and smashed fingers.

Wearing it, I knew I could always make you laugh or smile with some stupid joke or funny face to make you forget what hurt or what was bothering you.

You often looked at me like I was a Superman dad – and I loved that!

With it flapping in the wind, I could ride your tiny self through town on the back of my bike, or in front of me on that old minibike – and I’m pretty sure you always felt safe.

When softball games went bad, I could swaddle you in it and coach you through the rough patches until the next pitching gem occurred and you were back on top.

 I think it faded a little in middle school and high school. The problems were getting trickier, with boys and cliquey friends, but it was still there and still held some power to help – maybe with the aid of ice cream at times.

And I think it maybe brightened again during college, when the more mature and independent you realized its value again, from perhaps a different perspective.

Sure, things were trickier than skinned knees, but I still felt a little Superman-ish in your world – able to fix your car, offer advice on classes and apartments and maybe lighten your load at times.

I don’t feel that way now.

What you’re dealing with has left me wondering what to say.

What do to.

How to act.

I’m lost as a dad, and I’ve never felt so far from you. I’m feeling ironically far more like the weakling reporter Jimmy Olsen than the all-powerful Superman.

I want the bright cape back.

I want that feeling of you knowing I can help fix anything for you – as long as I’m breathing.

But that’s not reality.

I can’t fix this.

Not sure if even time can fix this.

What I can do as my weaker, capeless, non-Superman self, is stress how much I want to fix it. I can let you know that when you hurt, I hurt too and it kills me inside to see your pain.

I want you to know that if there was a pain and sorrow suction hose, I’d gladly attach it to you and take all of yours to let your carefree self back into the world.

You’re too young to feel these overpowering feelings of loss. There have been too many tears from all of us.

And what makes it worse is none of us can relate. And therefore, any advice any of us give you is shallow.

But you know that. You’re smart.

So, I won’t give any. I won’t say it’ll be all right. I won’t say time will heal you or any of that.

What I will say is I love you.

I hurt for you.

I’ll always be there for you.

And even though my powers have clearly diminished, I’ll never stop trying to be that superhero guy who can fix things for you.

Never.