DRAGONS

Today we are dragons.

It is a curious phenomenon that occurs only at the intersection of bitterly cold and a mind inclined toward the fantastic.  Actually, the idea originated (in recent memory) with our niece, who concluded upon seeing her own breath billowing away from her face that the only reasonable inference was the most obvious – she was a dragon.

Mark gave me an overview of the capabilities of a steam-breathing dragon during our morning drive.  He believes that a really competent steam-breather would be a much more fearsome opponent than the traditional fire-breathers.  According to his calculations (which admittedly were conducted hastily in the passenger seat while we waited at a stoplight) a steam-breathing dragon would be able to intimidate foes underwater as well as in the open air – think of the possibilities!  Since steam is indeed what we are breathing this morning (our car reports that it is seven degrees outside at the moment), we may actually be sea-dwelling dragons, landed by mistake in the arctic tundra (of Iowa) where fire-breathing would have been so much more useful. 

 “So,” he asks me, “what kind of a dragon would you be?”

“A steam-breathing one.”

“But what would you look like?  What kind of treasure would you hoard?”

My first thought is of the sun reflected in the windows of the tallest downtown buildings, which gives the impression that the exteriors are coated in sheets of gold.  It is a brilliant sight.  But such a temporary apparition is an impractical treasure, even for a dragon.  And I have a feeling that I’d be a practical dragon.

I came up short on the subject of appearance, but I knew exactly what I’d be collecting.  I’d raid libraries and carry away their books in droves.  I would line my cave with shelves and spend my time reading and fighting off the occasional questing librarian come to win back her family treasure.  I would hoard ideas.  I would steal knowledge.  I might be unscrupulous, but at least I’d be educated.

I take Mark to work every day; afterwards I retreat back to my lair, which is vaguely like a cave – never mind that it does seem to built above-ground; that’s a mere technicality.  It’s a well-known saying in the dragon world that every dragon’s home is his cave.  Mine is at least spacious and drafty and a good spot for napping in the in-between times (that is to say, when I’m not plundering and terrorizing the countryside).  There are rather more dishes and dirty clothes to be washed than you’d expect in a lair, but even dragons run a tight ship.  (Metaphorically speaking, although we’re several layers deep in figures of speech at this point.)

We’ve just about worked through a coherent theory of dragonimity (possible synonym: dragonishness) in the time we spend in the car together each day.  I drive Mark to work and pick him up after; it keeps him from having a lonely commute and keeps me from sleeping the morning away, which I’d certainly do if I didn’t have a definite reason to get up at the same time that he does.  So we find ourselves, mornings, watching the downtown approaching through our windshield while we’re hunkered down into our coats and our breath clouds the glass.  We draw the obvious conclusion.  We are dragons.