My giant

I visited my parents yesterday, and I found myself looking at the closet in the bedroom that used to be mine when I was a little kid. Not really thinking, I opened the closet door and stared down at the floor. There’s nothing there now but some old boxes and the odd plastic hanger. But I found myself remembering that when I was eight years old, that closet floor was a place of magic.

Here’s how I remember it: One Saturday morning, when I was eight and my brother was ten, we decided that we were going to make a giant. We had an entire plan. It wasn’t necessary to make the entire giant – only the part that would be visible.

We got a pair of my dad’s old work pants, and stuffed it with towels. We did the same with an old pair of his socks and work shoes, the brown ones he used to wear when he worked on the garden out in the back yard. We took our time and laid everything out carefully. You see, the closet door slides to open, and if you slide open the right side, you mostly only see the right side of the closet – and just a little bit of the left side.

When we thought we had it all perfect, we called downstairs. “Mom! There’s a giant in the closet.” Our mom, who had probably been peacefully making lunch before we’d disturbed her, trudged patiently upstairs to see what all the yammering was about. We pointed to the closet door. Just as we’d hoped, she slid open the door and looked down at the floor. Sure enough, there he was, our giant, the first giant we’d ever had in our house, sleeping peacefully on the closet floor. Or at least what you could see of him – a pair of legs and big work shoes.

Mom smiled and said “that’s nice.” Then she slid the door closed and went back downstairs to finish making lunch.

I’m not sure what response we were looking for, but I’m pretty sure – even after all these years – that wasn’t it.

One Response to “My giant”

  1. John says:

    That’s a great story, similar to me of Calvin and Hobbes.

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