Princess, Prince, Dragon by Beate Sigriddaughter

I’m a busy woman. It started back when I wasn’t yet able to read, which was part of the problem. Dad worked as custodian at a mountain retreat. In early spring, mid-week, there were no strangers around, so I got to play on the hillside between the main building, now empty, and the weaving workshop. Nothing bloomed there. Black skinny branches laced sand without leaves and only a few thorns. I knew about the silky blue flowers over in the forest, but I had to stay put where my dad could see me. Now I got really busy. I had to do everything myself. I had to be princess, prince, and dragon. Princesses, I was told, didn’t do much. So, as princess, I typically parked myself somewhere to dream and wait and let the other two have at it. As prince I waited, too, but I was alert and my imaginary sword gleamed with imaginary sparks beneath the real sun. As dragon I was furious. Understandable, really, when you’re always considered the bad guy. So I rushed about and roared and fumed and spewed imaginary fire. I was undaunted, though, despite the probability that I would one day be defeated. Not much has changed. The last straw is that I’m expected to love myself. I mean, does loving yourself even count?

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