The Sword and The Stone

The sun is shining, and the little boy is pulling on the sword with all his might, believing the magic. With the certainty that only a 3 year old can have, he is sure that he can pull the sword from the stone and be the King. He will then slay dragons, protect princesses, and have all of the triangle peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches he could ever want. The concentration on his face is fierce, and the newly forming muscles in his arms are straining. That young prince was never able to pull the sword from the stone. But he ran on through Storybook Forest that day – believing. If the characters from his Storybooks could be real, then anything was possible. The trees were alive, waving down to him as he ran down the path ahead of me, blond hair plastered to his sweating face, chubby legs telling the story of his leaving toddler-hood behind and becoming a boy.

He learned soon after our day at Story Book Forest that while dragons in the form of big scary drunk fathers are real, little princes can't protect their queen. In fact, the queen must protect this prince, and whisk him away from all he knows and loves - except for peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches.

He fights fiercely anything that threatens his sense of self, anyone or anything, including me. His tears fall freely in those early years of alone. He is friendless, save for his cousins, who don’t count, he tells me, because they have to be his friends. He battles the dragon daily, and at times, becomes the dragon itself. The odd thing is that he draws dragons all the time, even on the walls of his bedroom. He draws them so well I ask him to draw one for me, but he never does.

When I meet and marry my soul mate, he seems to have two dragons to fight, for a time. Until the day comes, when we find the sword that fits his hand. A walk to the music store down the block, and my soul comes back with a guitar.

The young face begins to shine. He learns to play, fiercely, and spills his pain into the music. He plays and plays and plays. With the guitar, he has pulled the sword from the stone. He beats the stone with the sword; he smashes it. The music clashes like the red and white dragons of King Arthur fighting mid-air. He plays.

His uncle gifts him with another guitar. He plays more. He acquires an electric guitar. And another. And a bass. And another. He learns that taking the guitar to school and playing wins friends - other knights errant, and even princesses. He learns that playing bass can make you a King.

He is fierceness itself, and his face shines as he plays. His long arms are hard with muscles built not by swordplay or sports but by bringing music, both hard and soft, into the world. He has slain his dragons, he has won kingdoms of his own, and his queen-mother will still make him all the triangle peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches he can eat.

He has found the magic at last.