Susan LaffertyRefuge. In the tropical afternoons of my childhood.
I’m sitting on soft dirt. Amid twisted roots. Under a canopy of thick, intertwined bougainvillea branches growing by the backyard fence.
Shelter. From unrelenting sun.
Shade. For afternoon play with plastic teacups and bowls. A plentiful supply of leaves and blossoms within reach.
The secret place where I can rest. And just be.
Hidden behind clothes and toys, I giggled when I heard my mother calling and calling my name. I was around 4 years old. And I’d discovered a secret place in the depths of our walk-in closet. She called my name again. And again.
This was so much fun.
No one knew where I was.
As you can imagine, the end of that story was not funny at all. My mother was in tears and panicking. She thought I had wandered outside the gate of our home in Surabaya and been lost forever. This was a surprise to me. And the discipline that followed was, shall we say, memorable. The next time I listened when my parents called.