I suppose an actual clubhouse would have warranted some sort of code, or password. But I built mostly forts, often just old blankets draped over the red wagon and the neighbor’s wheelbarrow, both housing my sea of stuffed animals and baby dolls, collecting rust from the very structure that held them, never thinking or even wanting to keep anyone out. No, on the contrary, corners of blankets were clothes-pinned up to create easy access to my imaginary world. Grandma Dynda, an unrelated matriarch of VanDyke Road, was the only adult almost short enough to enter without bending over. Not yet understanding the limitations of age, I asked her to sit cross-legged with me on the grass. She declined, but left a sack of cookies, enough to feed all of my fortmates, and fuel a conversation for hours.
My mother never had to wonder where I was. I always left a significant trail. My abandoned banana seat bike. A wagon. A blanket. A dropped elephant. Clothes pins. A koala bear, each lining the vacant lot between our green house and Dynda’s. Perhaps it was purposeful, this trail, this connection between my brave journey and my mother’s hand. One might say I’m still doing it. With each story. Each painting. Just a little connection for her to know where I am. For me to remember where I came from.
I’m reminded of it daily, when I’m asked for my password. It still seems so unnatural. We even have a password for the grocery store. To receive our plate of free macarons, our reward for fidelity, I will have to present the code. I can hear the laughter of Grandma Dynda behind her swinging screen door. I gather the clothes pins. All lines, doors and hearts, remain wide open.
