As children, the three of us would build those kinds of forts you make with blankets and chairs backed into each other; tunnels added with the use of TV trays my family had received as a Christmas gift the year prior, from relatives we rarely saw.
We shared one flashlight between us. We’d pass it to each other, taking turns, each telling a scary story when the light was ours. Sometimes we’d lie on our backs, our feet stretched as far as space would allow, toes often poking a little outside of our suburban campsite.
The light and shadows cast would play in-between the crinkles and bends in the blankets. We’d point out shapes as if they were ghostly clouds above us.
Our parents were always out in the front room, music playing loud, their drunken laughter competing with the vinyl spun sounds. Sometimes I’d try to incorporate the songs playing into my story, ghost tales carved from Fleetwood Mac and Joni Mitchell lyrics.
Sometimes I wish we’d written them all down.