“Kings,” I explained, “need a nation of their own to rule.”
He pointed to his action figures and stuffed animals, arrayed in clusters around his bed. Rather, his throne.
“Kings are born that way. It’s a family trait.”
“Probably someone in our family was important somewhere.”
“Kings don’t wear short pants.”
“Did so. Puffy ones. With tights.”
I sighed. “Well, even if you are a king, you still need to wash up for dinner. Mom made potatoes.”
“I hafta finish my speech, Dad.”
I nodded permission. As I left, I could swear I heard a murmur, like a gathered crowd…
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