The Prince’s Cry

Today is my son's 12th birthday. Inconceivable.

Photography by Doris Favale

A. is an amazing kid--a young man who has helped me grow as I watch him mature.  He is a reader, a fencer, a violinist.  He bounds up and down the stairs with the joy of a toddler, understands human motivation in a very mature way, loves to brag about his ability to eat spicy food, and keeps me laughing with terrible puns that remind me of my father's sense of humor.

Every year on this day, I think about his birth at home, which I wrote about several years ago on my old personal blog. This is a day of celebration for him but also for me.

A.is also a lover of all things Shakespeare--and all things Princess Bride. In honor of the anniversary of my son's birth and of Shakespeare's baptism, I want to share with you a sonnet my son wrote to celebrate:


The Prince's Cry


“Who’s there?!” The ghost of my father tonight appears
To me in the dark as I walk—perchance in dreams.
“Inconceivable!” you say, consumed with fears.
(Methinks that word means not what you think it means.)

You poisoned my father and stole his throne and his crown.
I tried to forget his death by taking a lover.
But in her pain, she fell in the river and drowned.
And you didn’t care: you married the queen, my mother.

I must avenge my father’s death most foul,
Oh my uncle, who hath torn this house in two.
I’ve learned to use my sword and duel with skill.
And I have planned what I now say to you:

“Hello, my name is Hamlet the Dane,” quoth I.
“You killed my father--so now prepare to die.”