our father was a king of very little, but still a king. he ruled that trailer and the dark cold fields of trash that extended behind it, and we feared him. oh. how we feared him. not because he was cruel; never because he was cruel, but because he was strong. it was fear as in god.

we always thought he was born in this kingdom, after a little while, after we had forgotten mable street. and we always thought that his father probably showed gestured out the window of the trailer in broad sweeps saying “all this will be yours”. but that wasn’t how it was.

he was born in the back of a van covered in bright, psychedelic colors. his mother never really wanted him, and to be honest, that’s what made him strong. stronger then a thousand years of horseback training and archery and “all this will be yours” would have done.

he held his mother’s hand while she screamed late into the night about demons without names. and he watched her boyfriends come and go as fast as the mile signs and apartments and cities they passed. he heard her bed squeaking when they needed a little extra money or a favor. and he made her oatmeal the morning after and watched her cry. and she blamed him for all of it, but they got by.

he was her son. her father. brother. best friend.
and she despised him, almost as much as he loved her.
he was her son.

and that is what made him strong.