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In a Tent

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I've spent more than two years of my life living in a tent, but less than three. I figured it all up once, but I forgot.

My grandpa was a tribal cop who camped at the gate leading to the sacred sites during the summer months when the snow didn't guard the ancestral graves from robbers. A bottle of A1 steak sauce had broken over the square white canvas tent we stayed in, and I'm not a fan of A1 to this day. A bear wandered through and tore holes through the fabric. My mom slept with a 30-06, and she left a flashlight with me.

"If a bear comes, shine the light into it's eyes, and I'll shoot it," my mom said to me.

"But why can't I have the riffle? You shine the light into its eyes and I'll shoot it." I would argue, as I faded into sleep.

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I lived in green square tents when I played my part in the army's war games.

I lived in tan circus style tents in Kuwait. These were fabulous living things that swayed gently in hurricane breezes, and had plywood floors and air conditioning. The way they moved with the wind, made me stare up from my cot with admiration. My eyes swayed over the Arabic designs dyed into the canvas.

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Last week I lived in a little plastic tent. It weathered the sun, sand, and rain like a trooper. I slept like a baby under her little dome.

I have never been happier in my life than when I slept in a tent.

Why do I live in a house?

Published 
Written by fallingdove
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