My younger brother and I could often be found in large boxes as children. We were both small for our age. It birthed in us an appreciation for spaces built for just our build. Closets were a great play place. Shrubbery that subtly umbrellad. Crawl spaces, preferably dank and dark. These were our forts, our homes. We were mousy explorers. We were creek kids as well and large stones provided hiding places or action figure burial grounds. Crags, in areas of the rivers where the water had carved deeper into the sediment, were ideal. They offered natural treasures, you know, shit that sparkled. Mica, garnet, etc. Stones in the beds of Connecticut soil.
When indoors, we were engineers if need be. Blankets, couch and chair parts, and miscellaneous household goods were all used to fashion rooms more our size. But it was the box, that very rare large box that comes with the purchase of a new washing machine or television, power wheels or curio cabinet, that held most value.
It could be completely enclosed. It could be punctured and folded. Carried to new locations. Its brown walls could have been wigwam interiors, or furs stretched across a birch frame somewhere in the Arctic Circle. On occasion one could fit the two of us and our other mousy friends, but mostly, it was about independence. We were wolves. Pack animals sure, but with an appreciation for loneliness. It was a declaration of home or den. Ownership.
I recently crafted a new tiny space for myself and I adore it. It is mine. My dream corner. My privacy. My walls.
I guess now it is time to puncture things and howl.
