Two Pairs of Feet

In this memory, I’m five years old. One winter morning, I find my mother in the tiny balcony of our half-dilapidated apartment, hanging blankets on the railing. She does this whenever it’s sunny outside, but today is the first time I’m intrigued by it.

As I gaze at the thick blankets swaying loosely in the wind through the open glass doors, an idea occurs to me.

What if I go behind that blanket? Would it feel like a hidden nest?

No sooner than the thought takes a form, I’m dashing toward the balcony barefoot. My little brother follows me.

The moment I slip behind the hanging blanket, the darkness as solid as night envelopes me.

“Wow, it’s night here!” I exclaim. “It’s amazing!”

The blanket ripples, and my brother appears next to me. “Wow, it’s night here!”

We both sit down and take in the darkness around us. How fun is it that we can experience night when it’s still daytime outside. Plus, this place is hidden. It’s a secret world for the two of us.

“Who’s hiding there?” comes my mother’s voice. “I can see two pairs of feet!”

“That’s not us, Mommy!” I call out. “Because we cannot see you! Plus, it’s night here!”

“It’s night here!” echoes my brother next to me.

“And it’s amazing!”

“It’s amazing!”

We then burst into laughter completely elated by our new discovery.

Little do we know that our mother is taking a picture of our feet sticking out of the hanging blanket.