Nature's Playroom
When the sunsets, my playroom comes alive. Personal Essay/Short Story
The room is a whirlwind of activity. Screams of laughter echo around the room long after the sun has set and a flicked switch has sent the room into a spinning vortex of darkness. When the girls have gone to sleep, cocooned in their blankets, visiting the sandman for a night of adventures, the glass panes reflect the shimmering moonbeams across the worn carpet. The room itself is like a portal into another realm. The threshold between reality and fantasy is a mere mahogany door frame. Seven slight grooves in the wood mark the growth of its daily visitors. Through the portal the first thing you’ll see is a carpet, worn with time, but as bright and vivid with colors as the falling leaves in autumn; a mixture of oranges and reds swirling together in a storm of patterns and shapes. The soft threads woven through the fabric absorb the sweet smell of baby’s breath and peanut butter cookies.
On the right-hand side of the room, in the shaded corner, is a wooden bookshelf. The varnished surface is as silky and soft to the fingertips as the large cotton candy clouds hovering in the night sky. A light coating of dust lines the outer edges of the top shelf. They’re not tall enough to reach it yet, but soon that will change. The wooden shelves are bowed inwards with the weight of books and video cassette tapes. The thin children’s books, with their ripped edges and sticky stains, are packed tightly on the bottom shelves; an unfolding hurricane of greedy fairies, conniving foxes and tasty gingerbread men. Spinning to the right, your eyes will be drawn to a box resting along the wall. Its bright blue outside and shining yellow inside, like Spring, even in the middle of Winter.
The ridged plastic edges are bumpy along the side, like rolling hills shrunken down and painted blue. Its contents are mysterious and, to the children, as old as the ancient tree in the backyard. The smell of mothballs clings to the inside like dewdrops on fresh sprouts of grass. The worn velvets and rhinestones mingle together, molding a picture of another time and another place. The scrunched up hat in the corner, with its folded wide brim, has orange Popsicle stains coloring its peacock feather. The gold shimmery purse, with its jangling beads, has a half-finished lollipop stuck to its cheap silk insides.
Tucked into a hidden corner, seen out of the corner of your eye, is a miniature crib; the carving of a rabbit etched on one side and covered in a mess of different objects. Hidden underneath a pile of Barbie clothes and pink tiaras is a small tanned doll. Her black unseeing eyes are staring up at the ceiling; like the eye of a storm, they are calm amidst destruction. Her dark features and Spanish skirts give a sense of warmth. She is wrapped lovingly in a polka dot pink shirt and placed into the crib. A smile is painted onto her plastic face. Her cheeks tint red as if in the middle of laughter.
She is the epitome of happiness and therefore she will always be the rock to anchor you during a tornado. During the day, the room is a hurricane of Barbie doll heads, stuffed teddy bears, and crumbled pieces of crackers. Girls grab a section and play on their own or if feeling generous, together. It is a room of laughter and smiles, boo-boos and ouchies, band-aids and kisses. At night, the temperamental blizzard ceases and the stars smile down upon the serene vision, before the sun rises and whirling winds pick up once more.
On the right-hand side of the room, in the shaded corner, is a wooden bookshelf. The varnished surface is as silky and soft to the fingertips as the large cotton candy clouds hovering in the night sky. A light coating of dust lines the outer edges of the top shelf. They’re not tall enough to reach it yet, but soon that will change. The wooden shelves are bowed inwards with the weight of books and video cassette tapes. The thin children’s books, with their ripped edges and sticky stains, are packed tightly on the bottom shelves; an unfolding hurricane of greedy fairies, conniving foxes and tasty gingerbread men. Spinning to the right, your eyes will be drawn to a box resting along the wall. Its bright blue outside and shining yellow inside, like Spring, even in the middle of Winter.
The ridged plastic edges are bumpy along the side, like rolling hills shrunken down and painted blue. Its contents are mysterious and, to the children, as old as the ancient tree in the backyard. The smell of mothballs clings to the inside like dewdrops on fresh sprouts of grass. The worn velvets and rhinestones mingle together, molding a picture of another time and another place. The scrunched up hat in the corner, with its folded wide brim, has orange Popsicle stains coloring its peacock feather. The gold shimmery purse, with its jangling beads, has a half-finished lollipop stuck to its cheap silk insides.
Tucked into a hidden corner, seen out of the corner of your eye, is a miniature crib; the carving of a rabbit etched on one side and covered in a mess of different objects. Hidden underneath a pile of Barbie clothes and pink tiaras is a small tanned doll. Her black unseeing eyes are staring up at the ceiling; like the eye of a storm, they are calm amidst destruction. Her dark features and Spanish skirts give a sense of warmth. She is wrapped lovingly in a polka dot pink shirt and placed into the crib. A smile is painted onto her plastic face. Her cheeks tint red as if in the middle of laughter.
She is the epitome of happiness and therefore she will always be the rock to anchor you during a tornado. During the day, the room is a hurricane of Barbie doll heads, stuffed teddy bears, and crumbled pieces of crackers. Girls grab a section and play on their own or if feeling generous, together. It is a room of laughter and smiles, boo-boos and ouchies, band-aids and kisses. At night, the temperamental blizzard ceases and the stars smile down upon the serene vision, before the sun rises and whirling winds pick up once more.
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