Rob S. Friedman
June 2021
Camelot
Listening to him sing, crammed into the middle of our bamboo-framed couch, sisters on both sides of me hopping off it to grab the knob of the B&W Zenith, knowing it would be tuned back to Ed Sullivan as soon as our mother noticed, flints of awe and acceptance confirm that such a voice could never come from me.
If only sharing a birthday has the alchemical power of turning the larynx of an eight-year-old suburban ordinary into the steady baritone of a French Canadian my father’s age, his aura of dark brooding, his sardonic smirk to the camera, projecting Sir Lancelot’s confidence.
Does his older sister also have a birthday just days after his own? Does his special day also disappoint because Thanksgiving gets in the way? Does he also have a pair of battling uncles who ruin even that hated holiday? Would I ever escape to Camelot and stand between Arthur and Guinevere? Would I ever muster the courage to sing “If Ever I Should Leave You” to Alice Rose?
That we also share a first name should bolster the outcomes of magical thinking. I close my eyes and open my chest of amulets and spells.
Rob S. Friedman 