Home for the summer. Feels so good to say that. Just graduated with my masters degree in music (my sister bought me M&Ms to commemorate the occasion!) and I'm honestly, rightfully, sprawl-on-a-couch-and-listen-to-my-heartbeat...tired. The doctorate will begin its slow, tedious assault in the fall, but for now I am shoving it away from my mind and building a blanket fort.
Libby and K.J., the youngest in our nest of 8 children, are happy to have my help in building this little castle on a rainy afternoon. The interest and involvement of an older person seems to lend decorum and credibility to their project. We take several chairs and line them up back-to-back to outline a slender, curving hallway leading to the homeschooling table. With the skeleton complete, we drape quilts, full-skirted dress-up dresses and fuzzy throws over the chairs and the sides of the table. I crawl inside and exclaim, "No! There's still light coming in between that dress and the floor." K.J. quickly stuffs a doll's blanket in the hole. "Good. Now it's completely dark in here." Libby and K.J. scamper inside and giggle. We look at each other and agree--it is a masterful creation. Light still seeps in through some of the worn-out blankets, creating colorful patterns on the floor. The floor is hard linoleum.
"I've got an idea!" I whisper mysteriously. "There's a pile of pillows from my apartment back in my room. We can bring them inside here to make it soft." Libby's eyes widen with delight, and we dash out of the fort and race down the hall to my bedroom.
"You can even use my husband if you want," I offer.
The oversized pillow with arms is the crowning glory of the playhouse's interior. K.J. cries, "If Mom lets us sleep here, I'm sleeping on Julia's husband!" Libby's disappointment is clear. I retort, "K.J., it would be better if you offered the best pillow to the lady!" Now K.J. is deflated, and Libby sweetly observes that the husband pillow is big enough for both of them to sleep on--they'll each take an arm.
"Now we have to put up the boxes!" K.J. remarks. "Why do we have to use boxes?" I whine. "I think the fort is fine just like it is." But K.J. is determined, and soon our playhouse has a tiny entrance composed of two rows of rubbermaid boxes for walls and the cracked lids for ceiling tiles. It's too small for me to get in there now.
Libby and K.J. protest, though, and insist that I can fit if I get down on my belly and scoot in slowly and carefully. I try, and soon find myself in their colorful little world of pillows and blankets. They laugh and try to convince me to spend the night with them in their enchanted fortress. My feet are still outside.
The memories are so pungent that it hurts. I have never been one to remember dates, names, or faces, but I remember being Libby's and K.J.'s age. I remember worlds-within-worlds, when crawling in the entrance of a play fort meant crawling into a different reality. When I tried so hard to love each toy equally so they wouldn't get jealous of each other. When a rainy day lasted years. When the voice of some wildly joyful God echoed on and on in my colorful little world, and I didn't know what it was or where it came from but I loved it desperately. I wonder how much of Heaven will take place in a blanket fort.
No comments:
Post a Comment