Dear Friend,
When I was 7 years old, I lived here…
The house didn’t look like this photo back then. There was no white picket fence. There was no flag. It was always full of people. And music. And good smells.
I loved the hiding spot underneath the stairs. It was like a cave- it kept going, on and on. I would crawl further into it every time, finding new nooks and crannies along the way.
If you wanted to venture in, you had to bring a flashlight. And even then, you couldn’t see very well. I usually brought a friend too.
I filled this cubby with pillows, blankets, and books. My hiding spot was cozy and exciting, a combination of qualities that’s hard to come by.
I liked having a secret place to go.
A year or so later, we were traveling the U.S. in an old V.W. van and I would squeeze myself into the tiny closet as we drove down the road. I liked the privacy. And I thought the closet window was the best for observing people in other cars. But, mostly, I liked being so compact.
A few years later, when we settled in a new place, we had a tree in the front yard. I would sit in for hours, eating its berries and reading. I named it Helen. I liked it when people would pass by and not notice me perched on a branch.
I miss having a safe hiding place. Maybe I should try to find one.
What about you? Do you remember a hiding spot from your childhood? What did you like about it? If you didn’t have any, would you have liked one? What would it have been like?
