Tuesday Dinner’s Song
In a time where the land was young and innocent lived a princess who only knew how to smile yet did not know what it meant to smile. She spent her days growing more beautiful in the castle tower facing the verdant green, smiling at a star on the hill. A star so curious that it shown only at daytime and never at night! Little did our princess know that on the hill was not a star but in fact candlelight magnified by a telescope.
On the hill was a table, the candle, and the telescope— for our princess this was a star. This candle was used by a peasant boy who would steal from his household chores to look up at the tower, the princess, and her smile— for the boy she was his star.
After breakfast when little boys should be going up to the school for their lessons, this boy with his blue hat ducked under a crack in the school yard wall, and darted across the baker who knew his mom, and the chickens, one of which will be their dinner. He was afraid that the chicken might blab on him on the kitchen table. So goes the story of the boy and his day, throwing lessons for a girl and her smile. But we have not yet explained the table and the candle. You see, the boy although brisk on his feet was short on his eyes. He needed candles even to see in daylight. And the boy needed candles to write songs for the princess and her smile.
It was not enough only to look at the princess. No of course not. It would be a waste of such beauty to be only looked upon. It had to be captured, thought the boy. But how? At first he tried to draw, and draw he can but he only made a copy which paled in comparison to the princess and her smile. Then he tried to write stories, but he was at a lost! His telescope could only see to the castle wall and not through it. How could he know what the princess would be doing inside granite and steel? So he did what all boys from Eden to New York do when they meet a girl they like. He wrote a song.
It was at this weird day that the star seemed to sing an awkward note, half croaking half squawking, that the princess learned to laugh. And laugh she did in a very un-princess-ly kind of way! The princess snorted!
The boy, through the telescope, for the first time in his life learned what love was. Love was looking at a telescope watching a princess snorting. Her eyes squinting. Her hair, cut short, bobbing up and down. Her hands clutching the purple of her dress. Beautiful, the boy thought. And so he decided he would marry the princess.
But this, of course, poses a problem. How can a peasant marry a princess? Life doesn’t work that way. She’s twelve hours away, guarded by giant men, in a very far land. The boy racked his brains, and as we already know this will lead nowhere because he has been skipping school for some time now. He was stupid as stupid went.
Luckily, at that precise moment when ignorance was daunting our boy in the blue hat, the chicken called Tuesday Dinner learned to fly, and fly it did. Thinking the boy’s song was its mother calling, it flew over the hill it learned the boy’s song. Then it heard the princess laughing, and it went to the princess, repeating a sweet funny refrain “Hey, princess, I’m the boy on the hill, will you marry me.” This is how the princess learned of the boy, and his table, and his candle, and his telescope. This is how the princess learned of her star, and learned what it is to smile. Smiling is the shape formed, the princess learned, by the exchange of looks from star to star.
The boy is still stupid. The princess is still in her tower. And the chicken is still named Tuesday Dinner. But we never know how a story ends until, “and they lived happily ever after.”