How to Build a Fort

When I was small

I believed blankets were architecture.

Two chairs could hold a cathedral

if you angled them toward belief.

I used to crawl inside

with a flashlight and an apple

and the entire world would shrink

to fabric breathing above my head.

Outside, the hallway stretched long and blue,

like something waiting to be named.

I told my dolls the rules were simple:

No wolves.

No storms.

No forgetting.

We ate invisible soup from plastic cups

and practiced being brave

by whispering instead of shouting.

My mother folded laundry in the next room

like she was restoring order to the sky.

The carpet fibers were tall grass.

The dust in the beam of light were planets.

I thought safety was a decision.

The emergency broadcast system tests every Wednesday at 2:00 p.m.

Sometimes the blanket would slip

and a square of ceiling would appear—

ordinary, stippled, indifferent.

I would pull the fabric tighter

and declare the breach intentional.

Even now,

when the air shifts in a room

I look for the nearest two chairs

and measure the distance between them.

I still believe soft things can hold.