When the adults were gone, I used to eat on top of the refrigerator, as a kid. It was easy enough—climb on the counter, then take a big step to the top, skipping over the microwave because I knew, even then, that wouldn’t support my weight. What a tall throne for a child in a game of make believe and sneaking.
I mentioned this odd habit to my husband the other day, and he told me sitting on top of fridges is a leading cause of death in children because fridges are top-heavy. Why he knows this, I can’t say. Looking at the fridge I have now, this makes sense; it does not look perfectly rectangular, which is the sort of detail a child would miss. I suppose, then, I was lucky.
Some children had playhouses or made forts. I sat on top of fridges. There’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere.
In any case, I guess what I’m saying is, in games of shelter-making, there is always risk involved. Risk of playhouses getting soggy in the rain, risk of tree houses falling apart, or risk of being crushed by a massive Frigidaire. But wasn’t the risk part of the reason for doing it, right? Children aren’t trying to make the Colosseum. I didn’t know why, but I knew the top of the fridge was forbidden.
So, then, why read poetry if poetry doesn’t pay the bills, doesn’t hold up on rainy days? Because it’s what we can do when the world seems too big, when we know we’re in danger but don’t know why. I don’t know if that makes sense. I am writing this in an easy chair like a normal human who does normal things.
I hope you enjoy this issue, and pick an odd spot to read it in, simply because you can.
