Fortress and Castle

I went back too far once.

And sitting in a dark room I notice movement and remember the joys of turning a cardboard box into a time machine, a fortress, a hospital all wrapped into one. I see little arms emerge and push the flaps into wings, a curly head of uncut hair bobbing like a sea, and he sees me, and stops. He’s too young to know it’s me, and I unnecessarily add to his fear.

I’m sorry, I must have come too far.

But I hear keys rattling in the door, and hear keys drop to the ground, and once again, hear keys in the door, and I remember this night. He looks at me and asks me with his eyes.

I won’t let it happen.

Even if it changes the course of history, I take him into my arms and home, the home of now.

My son at school, my wife asleep, only my precious Naya awake, playing in a box of her own, the corners taped to keep her from cutting her hands.

I let him down and he joins her, both less than 4, his three earned in a different time, when 3 was perhaps 5, and 5, perhaps 10. Diapers changed for a sibling in 1976, are days full of Speak’n’Spell 30 years later. But there’s room in her box. There always will be. When he tries to pull up the flaps, she has to explain, in her language before words, that this is no fortress, but a castle. When he tries to put the flaps down, she has to explain that this is no time machine, because there is no better time than now. When he looks for the band-aids, she doesn’t understand.

She smiles because he doesn’t, he watches because she does.

But the colors of the room start to change, and when the corners of his mouth look up, the crib becomes a desk. When he laughs, the curtains change to blinds. When he takes the band-aids off his arm, I forget her name.

I’m sorry! I brought you too far.

When I turn, with him in my arms, she’s there watching us. She’s my age, visiting her past. She looks at the boy and shakes her head.

He has to return. I stole the night and lost the day. If I teach him to run, I won’t learn when to stay.

In a moment, we’re back.

I put him in the box, and he smiles.

No, it’s a fortress, not a castle.

I pull the flaps.

I’m sorry.

He still smiles, tomorrow in his eyes, and I tell him he has to stop.

You have to forget that.

We hear keys rattling in the door, and hear keys drop to the ground, and once again, hear keys in the door, and we remember this night. He looks at me and asks me with his eyes.

Stay.

The front door opens, and his smile fades.

It’s just waiting.

He pulls the flaps down, and disappears into the box.

I’m about to leave, but I’ve forgotten what comes next. I cannot return to a strange desk and blinds. I fade into the background as it all comes back, and concentrate on a crib and curtains, a Speak’n’Spell and a castle with plenty of room.

After he’s asleep in the bottom of a cardboard fortress I tell him about a kiss on the cheek, a peek at the stars. A ride through the hills, a night full of day. Sycamore, fireflies, and heat in the air. Grace for a lifetime of hurt.

And a reminder to tape the corners so she won’t cut her hands.