Watch Out For the Sword!

When I was three, I owned a sword made of paper. The paper was wrapped around a stick, and when you thrust the stick at someone, the sword came alive with a slithery sound. It hurled out of its hiding place, and it seemed it could reach across the room.
It was made in China and it cost a dollar. I didn’t have a dollar, but my mama did and she bought that sword for me.
With that sword, I attacked the big people in my life. There was my aunt, taking the pictures with her camera. There was my mother, cowering before the sword. There was my grandfather, running away from me and my mighty sword. There were dogs that ran from me.
In the bedroom was the travel DVD player, playing that new movie “Green Eggs and Ham” but I couldn’t care less. I was a warrior with my paper sword. Let me at the big people; let me whack them with my magic sword and make them smaller and less powerful than me.
Oh, it made me laugh to attack with that paper sword. I got the giggles so bad, I almost wet my britches. People hid around corners from me. I made my last stand on the sofa in the sunroom.
My aunt, the photographer, didn’t flinch when I zoomed her with my sword. The dogs ran away, and my grandfather stayed away too. Mama flinched in the corner like a scaredy bird. I won them all, those big people. My paper sword was mightier than all of them.
A story written by Jacob at the age of three, with help from his great-aunt Chris, who is grateful to have him and his mama, Allison, god-daughter and niece, staying at our house, where paper swords rule the day.
Thank God for the simple joys of childhood.

For Jacob

My boy is a sprite, stiff-legged in flight;
in search of a toy, he weaves left and right
smiling a smile chock full of sweet guile.
Without even trying, his actions beguile.

I chase him to save his small body from harm.
I race him and snatch him up in my arms.
He wiggles and squiggles and tries to get down:
He’s fluid with motion, brimming with sound.

I’m tired and wish he’d be still but he won’t.
He loves sticks and stones and really I don’t.
I offer a book or an educational toy,
But he wants my good crystal, my contrary boy.

Every day is discovery for this little man.
The richest of treasures he holds in his hand.
So simple his needs but baffling too.
No matter what happens, each moment is new.

Chris Alba © 2009