Small and Impressionable

Transmitter wrote this in the early evening:

The orange carpet had grown onto the couch, creating an orange and brown plaid that rested like dead vines on an ancient tree. At the far end of the couch, closest to the television and the closeted wet bar, sat Pop, a giant German of a man, in a self-made crater of broken springs and worn-out foam. At the opposite end of the couch, closest to the kitchen and the closeted laundry room, sat Mom, a frail shrunken beauty, in a well-worn soft spot of the cushion. I would sit between them, the first grandson, always in the middle. My cushion made an excellent fort.

An excellent fort by definition requires: every cushion in the room, several blankets, a small and concealed entrance, lookouts, and an important object to center the fort around such as the television, a stash of Pringles and basketball cards, or a hot air vent in the winter. Fort building has only one rule: everything must be put back in place before Pop comes home in the evening.

With Pop home my forts became more compact and concealed: behind the chair, inside the end table, underneath the bed. From my hiding place I would watch and listen in safety.

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