The Clubhouse

      I sleep in a closet. A rather weird statement to open with, but I can explain.

     

      When I was little I was a brave tom-girl; never afraid of the bugs, large dogs, or the strange cashiers that plagued my companions with fright. I did my best to hide the fact that I was a perfect scared-y cat at night, when there was no light but an eerie moon and flickering street lamps. Lying in my bed, I would be extremely comforted by a overly-bright night light I possessed, but I would still  bug out over creatures of the dark sometimes. On one such occasion, I was convinced that monsters inhabited a large closet in my room. I called reinforcements (Mom and Dad) and opened the wooden door, clutching a much loved stuffed animal. It was just an ordinary closet full of ordinary things, an quarter hours worth of excavation revealed. But it lit a spark of an idea in me.

      The next day I approached my mom and said in my best-little-girl-in-the-world voice “Can you help me with a project?” Hesitantly, probably due to the fact that some of my previous “projects” included opening an animal shelter, visiting Pluto, and turning the yard into a theme park, my mom asked what I needed help with. “I want to turn the big closet in my room into a secret clubhouse,” I answered. “Please?”

       “Sure.”

       So the process began. The closet had to be emptied and the things inside had new homes to be found. Two foam mattresses and a futon that we had for sleepovers were put in there and bit by bit the tiny white room came alive. My pillows and stuffed friends piled in and my dad, who had watched my exploit with an sentimental and amused expression, installed a small light for me. Lovingly dubbed “The Clubhouse,” this little home for an imaginative girl was complete. For then.

        Over the years more things have been added. I installed a corner shelf for my alarm clock and cherished of books, the walls have been bedecked with some of my best poems and oil pastel pictures. Just yesterday I pounded in a nail for my soft suede blue dream catcher to hang, dispensing of bad breams before they reach my sleeping head.

          But much hasn’t changed. My friends still come over and are awed by its whimsy and cozy feel. It is still the perfect place to read, to dream in sanctuary. For me to return to the times of when I was a little girl, unblemished by society and the oppression of crowds. And only when you find that peace can you achieve creativity that results in the creation of something bigger then yourself. So I shall dream on and remain in my dear Clubhouse as long as I can.

-astrid lightly