The Sword on the Wall

I have some eclectic interests and possessions. I really do enjoy having a variety of things to surround me and catch my interest. If you were to walk into my room, I imagine you would find an array of quote/unquote “conversation pieces,” at least one of which would interest you.

One of my favorites is the sword hanging above my bed.

Held up by three nails, and a prayer that I don’t get knocked on the head some night if it ever comes loose.

I am not sure it should even legitimately be called a sword, as there has never ever in its history been an attempt to put an edge on it. It is, in fact, just a rusted and ornate piece of metal, with a stamp that says “MEXICO” on the blade and a seam on the hilt where the metal wasn’t even smoothed or polished post-molding. I think it is one of the coolest things ever.

I rather like its personal history in my life. The origins of such a piece are a mystery to me. I first saw it when my brother brought it home (he had been helping someone clean out old trailer houses and had thought this worth taking. And also a stuffed rattlesnake, but that wasn’t allowed in the house). Loving it instantly, I started referring to it as “my sword”.

“Christian” (my brother), “can I take my sword out for a photo shoot?”

“Christian, can I borrow my sword for some writing inspiration?”

“Christian, can I hang my sword on my bedroom wall?”

In all honestly I am not sure I asked that last one, I think I might have just taken the initiative and done it.

Apparently he got the point, because one Christmas he snuck down to my bedroom, took it off the wall and officially gifted it to me as part of my Christmas gift. I was touched that he would think to officially relinquish it to me.

I have since moved, and that sword had moved with me, gracing my wall in my current bedroom as it was in the last. I would be shocked to find it didn’t do so through any moves I have ahead of me. Not only do I have it as just a pretty interesting decoration, it’s a reminder of a brother who was willing to part with it because he know how happy it made me. And that’s a very double edged reason to keep it. (Pun fully intended. I like puns. I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. I inherited my Dad’s sense of humor and I thoroughly enjoy it).

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