The Making of a Dragon Wizard
birth of an age
When my son was five he was diagnosed with “artism” pretty far along on the spectrum. He was obsessed with drawing dragons. There were red and green dragons, two-headed dragons, small and large dragons, fierce dragons and gentle giants, fire-breathing and fireless — it was an endless stream of dragon images. And he would read everything he could about dragon lore.
I love my son, and I hated to see him like this, knowing that he will always need to take medication and always be different. There’s no cure for “artism” — you just live with it. I knew he would never be like other kids. And we could wallpaper the whole house with his drawings.
I got home one day from shopping and immediately felt something different about the house. It was an energy, a hum in the air. I went to check on Mervyn. When I opened the door I stood stupified. There facing me was a fully formed dragon — green scales and all — looking back at me.
“How do you do, Mrs. Mervyn, it said,” with a little puff of smoke emanating from its nostrils as it exhaled the words. It’s good to meet my wizard’s mother.”
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