i was seven when i was digging trenches with a stick.
lining up a kneeling rifle brigade behind a maple tree root.
camouflaging a bazooka unit under a lean-to made of stiff, curled, gold-brown oak leaves.
constructing the command post with stacked twigs.
when i think about those moments when the world stopped and the only things worth contemplating where those i could reach with my hands or imagine with my mind, they were many but so distant ago.
they also were almost always under the backyard tree with a cigar tin full of plastic army men.
green and gray.
good and evil.
and a child’s freedom to pretend.
i’d do it today except i can’t.
it has to do with being an adult i suspect.
maybe some day though, when i’m sure no one is watching.
and after i’ve had time to practice my pretending skills.