I Know It's Not Thursday

Right. The tour guide told me that this fortress was built well over 2,000 years ago. In 1983, a man named James carved his name in it. Congratulations James. Now you are a dick for eternity. You are number 30.
I killed a cat the other day with my bare hands. I twisted its neck and body in opposite directions in a fiercely swift motion and it lay lifeless in my hands. I tossed it in the front yard. My landlord thinks I am psycho. I know that cat will never walk on my car again and claw the paint up.
In my defense, there is no dead cat recycling can in our yard.
We have had many roles for one another. Throughout time, we have played parts in each other's lives with varying degrees of time and importance. We have been brother and sister. Father and daughter. Teacher and student. Employer and employee. Queen and royal guard. Friends. Lovers. Mentors. Throughout time, we have woven a tapestry of relationships with one another that blanket our senses to the reality of our existence. Our history reveals how blind time is and how weak memories are. Forever teaching one what we previously learned from the other.
I knew this.
It wasn't until I realized the most important role you have ever played in our history that I came to understand the man I am today. You stood there with your bare, athletic, tanned leg showing through your long white robe as I marched off to die. You. My mother, who taught me courage as you shed no tear and showed no remorse that your son would soon wet the earth with his blood. That image of you as I left was etched into my consciousness and stayed with me across every life I led. Inspiring me to be as strong, wise and beautiful as you were at that moment. You are now, as you were then - my Spartan mother.