A Place

Our Veranda had white concrete floors, it had long, horizontal long, smoggy windows. They were always open. It was bright light in there. A glossy sun warmth warped the hard white room. A blue-green circular woven carpet was supposed to be in the center of the room but was constantly scooting one way or the other. My brother's and I's pulsing, pushing feet bunched it this way and that. There was a small red table, with two small red chairs. The table was sized for children 8 and younger. It was always sticky with the glue not thick enough to pull off. I would squirt Elmers glue on the table and wait for it to harden. Tugging the the gooey white bubbles from the table was so satisfying. The cornerstone of the room was a tepee. It was a conglomeration of beige's. The pointy top had a little tuft of straw poking out. It was supposed to be authentic. A hole is carved out the side I have to drop to all fours to scramble in. Inside it is a furry sanctum. The light is splintered, probing through the thin material. Stuffed animals, blankets, and pillows are piled three thirds of the way up, some spill out the opening. It is always hot and we don't have air conditioning so the fluff of the objects is slightly matted by humidity and the sweat of my brother and me. It isn't complete comfortable in there not just because of the moisture but because of the books we drag in. The corners of Make Way for Ducklings and The Very Hungry Caterpillar jab in your neck and behind your knees.