The Voyage of the Mist Tent

The hole in the blanket was the size of a dime. It was perfect for spying from my bunk in the pirate ship Mist Tent, where I had been held captive for two long days and nights.

I peered through the opening and spied the Bedroom Dresser, another ship on the Sea of Hardwood Floors. Inside a shadowy cave on the shore of Closet Door Cove, ghosts wearing my clothing taunted me as the Mist Tent dropped anchor in Bedroom Harbor.

Just beyond the Port of Window Pane, sparkles of diamonds danced in the fresh layer of snow on the evergreen trees in the Land of Frozen Water.

“I hope the snow doesn’t melt before I’m well enough to play outside,” I groaned, which led to a coughing fit I muffled with my pajama sleeve.

My spying eye felt dry from the cool air of the harbor. With one hand I rubbed my eye lid, with the other I scooted my first grade homework out of the way so I could lie down and rest in the belly of the humid ship.

The Mist Tent was built over my bed using 2 x 4’s for the frame, then covered in blankets. The hatch to get inside was at one corner of the bed where two blankets came together. There was enough room in the tent for two chairs – one for the vaporizer that spewed warm mist, the other one for company.

A scraping sound from the snowy expanse outside echoed across the Sea of Hardwood Floors. Excited, I sat straight up in my bunk. It must be my father, forging his way through the Land of Frozen Water on his trusty horse, Snow Shovel, searching for me, his long lost child!

“I’m here! I’m here!” I began to shout, but hesitated. Another coughing fit could alert Pirate Mom. She had paddled the dinghy up the Hallway River to the Hamlet of Living Room for her other job slaying dragons and turning my two sisters into pirates. She had already silenced the roar of the Vacuum Cleaner dragon and would now be in the Village of Kitchen teaching her young buccaneers how to make gruel.

Pirate Mom used to be an ordinary mother, until the wheezing in my chest turned her into a ruthless swashbuckler. With her pancake turner sword raised to my father’s chest, she decreed, “I order you to build a mist tent, where I will banish our middle daughter until she coughs no more.”

The splash of oars on the Hallway River warned me that Pirate Mom was nearing the ship.  She would be here soon with the meager bowl of grub that barely kept me alive.

The hatch of the Mist Tent opened. Pirate Mom crept in carrying a bright green tray with a glass of milk, a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a peanut butter and jelly and honey sandwich (my favorite) and two homemade Snickerdoodle cookies.

“Here you go sweetie, a sandwich with noodles and doodles on the side,” she chuckled, pleased with her pirate sense of humor.

“What did you do while I was busy?” Mom asked, settling down in the extra chair.

To hide the grin that was tipping the corners of my mouth, I took a bite of the peanut butter sandwich and mumbled, “Nothing.”