Fort
"You've never built a fort?"
Mac's standing in the center of her living room, hands on her hips. She seems almost exasperated when I shake my head and answer with a definitive "No."
This conversation comes about when our godchild informs my feisty Marine that *I* do not know how to make a fort. "I had a decent childhood but, I don't know. I think dad's MIA forced me to grow up too soon and miss the little things like fort building." I shrug, it really isn't that big of a deal although it seems to be for her.
In a flash Mac disappears into her room and returns with an armful of sheets. "We're fixing that today." For a solid half hour she rearranges the living room furniture tossing sheets after sheets to and fro. She even uses a dining room chair to raise the material so that the middle looks like the mast of a circus big top.
Binder clips, hair ties and any other binding apparatus she could find holds the half dozen sheers strung across the room and I watch equally fascinated and embarrassed. Once done she stands outside, sliding her work and nodding with a satisfied grin.
Again she disappears into her bedroom and comes back with two comforters and our pillows stacked up so high it's a wonder she didn't trip or kill herself in a tangle of sheets. "Mac?"
"Shhh, not done yet." She states plopping her burden outside a little opening only for her to disappear inside.
The "fort" rustles above her and all I see from my vantage point is her arm extending out to reach the comforters and pillows. It's honestly fascinating. "Okay, go kill the lights and come inside." She declares and I do as told. Sometimes you just don't argue with a Marine.
The only thing left to illuminate Mac's fort is the light from the fireplace. When I crawl inside I find her laying on her side amidst the bed she made from pillows and comforters. "So this is what you do when you play fort, Marine?"
She's naked, the only thing covering her is a flimsy bedsheet. "It's the grown up version."
When our lips meet I decide I really like building forts.
