I was never a child.
Well, that’s not exactly true.
I was a child in both years and
understanding of the ways of the world,
yet I carried the title “Man of the House,”
bestowed upon me (innocently) by my mother
when my father died at thirty-nine.
I was twelve, a boy-king without a Cromwell.
I didn’t understand then the implications
of my (ultimately) frightening new position.
Was I to be my own father, a husband, make decisions?
When I actually became the man of the house,
and realized the full meaning of my title,
I’d already rejected the weight of the crown.