You remember how fucking magical closets were as a kid?
Didn’t need to be a big closet or a fancy closet. It could just be a tiny coat closet or a small pantry. Double sliding hollow doors, or a thick old door with a mirror attahed. Didn’t really matter.
It was a closet. It held power.
Your parent’s closet, especially — it was this world full of adult things and smells. Your parent’s closet held all the secrets. It was a land far away. It was your favorite hiding place.
You felt safe there amungst your mom’s dresses or dad’s dress shirts. It smelled like them, but not them them, a copy of them. A stored version of them. The them that would go out to parties when you’d have a sitter, or the them on that increadingly rare day when they’d head to church (Easter, probably. Christmas Eve, likely.).
There were shelves way up high out of your reach. Did they hold a gun? Did they hold your dad’s old Playboys? Was there a stack of cash in one like in the movies? Or was it just rarely worn dress shoes or an out-of-fashion hat?
You could hide in the back of a closet for hours. It was magic.
Sometimes no one would even look for you.
I miss that magic, sometimes.
Other times, I just open the door.