The Loft Nest

May sixteenth in the year two thousand and twelve, my son Garrett was almost four years old; when it was near his time to go to sleep, we would climb up into the loft bed like it was our nest in a tree. What was five feet for me was fifty feet for a boy and his enormous imagination.

Under the covers of the thick, warm quilt, he was the baby bird and I was his mamma bird. We would play that a big scary storm was approaching, I would turn on the big fan which would blow like a ferocious monster outside while we were snug and quite cozy inside our big bird nest.

Those times were the best as we laid down to rest, so long ago but I remember
that cute little scene in the big bird loft nest.