The Adventures We Had
Sarah Daly
At my aunt’s house, there were spaceships, and caves, and jungles. What some called a sofa, was the cockpit of our spaceship, and what some called pillows, were our steering apparatuses. The dense shrubbery in her yard were the low hanging boughs of our forest, and the heirloom dining table, with its lattices and hanging curls, were our stalactites and stalagmites. The stairs were our mountains which we scaled with our backpacks, and the handrails were the bars of our jail through which our warden would slip us snacks. The picnic table was our fort, underneath which we would hide from the enemy soldiers.
Every afternoon we would find grand adventures at our aunt’s house. And she aided and abetted these follies of ours. She was always game, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, unlike our own mother who wore stiff jackets and skirts with oddly colored scarves tied around her neck. She never carried briefcases or bulky notebooks like our mother did. In fact, our aunt didn’t seem to have a job, that we knew of. Of course, she would sometimes sit behind the bulky white computer with its blue screen and white letters, her hand resting on her chin as she stared at the keyboard. It was the only thing in her house which was off-limits to us. But we didn’t care about boring old computers. We wanted adventures. And we found them.
Our aunt was imaginative and pointed us towards these different opportunities. On rainy days, we crawled under the beds and collected dust bunnies, pretending that they were coal. On sunny days, we stayed in the yard and did not care that we were fenced in and not allowed to leave. There were wild lions and bears beyond the fence, so we were content inside. It was a long summer, that year, and our aunt would give us lemonade, despite our quest to find fresh water. Our aunt was a great cook and could make anything we asked for. My mother pestered her to start her own bakery, but my aunt refused. She preferred to work at her computer. My mother said that she’d never do anything because she always had someone to bail her out.
The house was old and had all sorts of odd nooks and crannies. On one rainy day, we explored the attic and swiped at the cobwebs and crawled around in the old boxes. Our aunt came up and opened a box of dresses, but then threw them petulantly on the ground. Her eyes seemed glazed and distant, and we knew whatever was in the box had upset her. So we tried on outfits from other boxes. We found clothes suited to our adventures, and they became our uniforms. Our aunt clapped and cheered us on.
But day, by day, her eyes seemed more glazed and distant. She spent more time on her computer, and only, occasionally, typed a word or two. We never asked her about her work because it seemed too boring. Our mother would roll her eyes, when we told her about what our aunt did all day. She would call her on the phone sometimes and have whispered conversations with her. Our aunt would tell her to mind her own business and then would hang up.
Soon, school started and we went over less and less. The next full day we spent there was on Thanksgiving. My aunt had baked several pies, and we salivated just looking at them. The dinner itself was overly long and boring and we had to eat our greens to get the pie and ice cream we so longed for. We particularly wanted the peanut butter cream pie with its chocolate syrup drizzles. We fidgeted and yawned through boring talk about taxes and elections. Finally, finally, it was time for pie, which we hoped we could take upstairs to our attic. After our aunt served the pie to us, we dug in. My mother got a piece of raisin pie (she was the only one that liked raisin pie) while she continued to yammer on about stock prices. Finally, she ate a tiny bite. She coughed suddenly and spit it back out on the napkin. We were shocked: she normally loved raisin pie. But she looked ahead of her, and then for a long minute at my aunt. Before we knew it, we were in the car, our pie abandoned mid-slice, and driving back home. Our mother wouldn’t let us go to sleep that night, for some reason. She turned on the TV, and we watched the late shows until the dawn broke.
In the end, we never returned to my aunt’s, and she packed up the house and moved away. Though we always longed for our attic and caves and mountains which we never found anywhere else.
Sarah Daly
At my aunt’s house, there were spaceships, and caves, and jungles. What some called a sofa, was the cockpit of our spaceship, and what some called pillows, were our steering apparatuses. The dense shrubbery in her yard were the low hanging boughs of our forest, and the heirloom dining table, with its lattices and hanging curls, were our stalactites and stalagmites. The stairs were our mountains which we scaled with our backpacks, and the handrails were the bars of our jail through which our warden would slip us snacks. The picnic table was our fort, underneath which we would hide from the enemy soldiers.
Every afternoon we would find grand adventures at our aunt’s house. And she aided and abetted these follies of ours. She was always game, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, unlike our own mother who wore stiff jackets and skirts with oddly colored scarves tied around her neck. She never carried briefcases or bulky notebooks like our mother did. In fact, our aunt didn’t seem to have a job, that we knew of. Of course, she would sometimes sit behind the bulky white computer with its blue screen and white letters, her hand resting on her chin as she stared at the keyboard. It was the only thing in her house which was off-limits to us. But we didn’t care about boring old computers. We wanted adventures. And we found them.
Our aunt was imaginative and pointed us towards these different opportunities. On rainy days, we crawled under the beds and collected dust bunnies, pretending that they were coal. On sunny days, we stayed in the yard and did not care that we were fenced in and not allowed to leave. There were wild lions and bears beyond the fence, so we were content inside. It was a long summer, that year, and our aunt would give us lemonade, despite our quest to find fresh water. Our aunt was a great cook and could make anything we asked for. My mother pestered her to start her own bakery, but my aunt refused. She preferred to work at her computer. My mother said that she’d never do anything because she always had someone to bail her out.
The house was old and had all sorts of odd nooks and crannies. On one rainy day, we explored the attic and swiped at the cobwebs and crawled around in the old boxes. Our aunt came up and opened a box of dresses, but then threw them petulantly on the ground. Her eyes seemed glazed and distant, and we knew whatever was in the box had upset her. So we tried on outfits from other boxes. We found clothes suited to our adventures, and they became our uniforms. Our aunt clapped and cheered us on.
But day, by day, her eyes seemed more glazed and distant. She spent more time on her computer, and only, occasionally, typed a word or two. We never asked her about her work because it seemed too boring. Our mother would roll her eyes, when we told her about what our aunt did all day. She would call her on the phone sometimes and have whispered conversations with her. Our aunt would tell her to mind her own business and then would hang up.
Soon, school started and we went over less and less. The next full day we spent there was on Thanksgiving. My aunt had baked several pies, and we salivated just looking at them. The dinner itself was overly long and boring and we had to eat our greens to get the pie and ice cream we so longed for. We particularly wanted the peanut butter cream pie with its chocolate syrup drizzles. We fidgeted and yawned through boring talk about taxes and elections. Finally, finally, it was time for pie, which we hoped we could take upstairs to our attic. After our aunt served the pie to us, we dug in. My mother got a piece of raisin pie (she was the only one that liked raisin pie) while she continued to yammer on about stock prices. Finally, she ate a tiny bite. She coughed suddenly and spit it back out on the napkin. We were shocked: she normally loved raisin pie. But she looked ahead of her, and then for a long minute at my aunt. Before we knew it, we were in the car, our pie abandoned mid-slice, and driving back home. Our mother wouldn’t let us go to sleep that night, for some reason. She turned on the TV, and we watched the late shows until the dawn broke.
In the end, we never returned to my aunt’s, and she packed up the house and moved away. Though we always longed for our attic and caves and mountains which we never found anywhere else.
