My Father is Building a Tent

In memory of my father

Translated by my sisters, Anna Golson and Emma Majoros
You can read the tale in Hungarian here

The sun has barely risen, the morning breeze has barely stretched when my father asked if I would like to go with him. I sat on his lap and nestled there for a bit. I rubbed the dreams out of my eyes and caressed his arm. The hairs on his arm were like soft grass. I loved using my fingers to take steps and pretend I'm walking in the meadows.

– Where are you going?

– To build a tent.

We went out to the field together. He sat down on the ground, but he didn’t cross his legs like my mother, uncle, friend, or I would do, instead, he folded them by his sides, like a double-u. I chased butterflies, caught grasshoppers, and picked flowers. He looked around, listened, and hummed. Then we went home.

 

The next day the sun rose, the morning breeze stretched, and my father asked me if I would like to go with him. I sat on his lap and nestled there for a bit.

– Your arm is like a meadow.

– You caress it like the breeze.

We went out to the field together. He sat down on the ground, like a double-u. I asked where the tent will be. He asked where I would build it.

– There, where that beautiful tree grows.

– That won’t do. Look, that's the only tree on the field. The eagles need it to watch the meadow from the top. If you build too close, you’ll scare them away.

– Then over there, where that lake glistens at the foot of the hill.

– That won’t do. That lake is a mirror. The sky uses it to marvel itself. If you were to build too close, the sky would get embarrassed, and cover itself with thick clouds.

– Where would you build it?

– On the top of the hill, where the wind can play with it to its liking.

Then we went home.

 

The next day the sun rose, the morning breeze stretched, and we headed out to the field. My father sat on the ground, like a double-u. As he contemplated and planned, he drew in the air like a wind-whisperer. I asked what the tent will be like. He asked how I would build it.

– Spacious.

– How spacious?

– So the whole family could fit.

– Wouldn’t you be scared in a big tent at night?

– Only if I were alone and the wind played with the canvas.

– Do you see those mountains in the distance? Their peaks caress the clouds in the sky, just like when you caress my arm. The bowels of the mountains are deep and the whole meadow would fit inside if you were to fold it. The tent should be like those mountain peaks.

I sat on his lap and nestled there for a bit. We watched the mountains and then headed home. 

 

The next day, the sun rose, the morning breeze stretched, and we went to the woods. We took axes. My father pointed to a big, tall tree. I asked why he picked that one. He asked what I saw in it.

– It stands tall and straight.

– Does the wind move it?

– It moves it, but the tree doesn't fall over. 

– Is the canopy spacious enough?

– The whole family could fit under it.

– Then we get this one, this will be the tent's main pole.

I raised my little axe and my father warned me:

– Look, next to the tree is this little two-year-old sapling. Watch your step, you don’t want to snap it. When we cut down the old tree, this young one will stretch up to the sky and grow tall and strong.

I nodded and the two of us started chopping. My chops were small and weak; my father's were big and strong. When the tree fell over, we rested next to it. Then we chopped off the branches, and pulled the long, strong tree trunk up the hill. The wind ran behind us, pushing us from behind. It was dark by the time we finished. We watched the stars for a little while, then headed back home.

 

The next day the sun rose, and the wind brought rain. We stayed home. What my father drew in the air the other day, he now drew on paper. He drew a tent that was like a lush tree, and like a cloud-caressing mountain. I drew butterflies, grasshoppers, and flowers. My mother brought canvas, my grandma brought her tailor scissors. My father sat on the ground, like a double-u. He cut long strips from the canvas while pursing his lips, like whistling the breeze. Then my mother sewed together the strips, and my grandma muttered because my father ruined her tailor scissors. In the evening, I laid into the canvas, as if it was a soft nest. I nestled there for a while and fell fast asleep. 

 

The next day we rose, earlier than the sun. We packed the canvas in a huge bag, and ropes, straps, stakes, and screws in another. We carried them out to the field. The morning breeze stretched, caught up to us, and pushed us up the hill from behind all the way to the top, where the pole was already waiting. I sat down next to it, and caressed the furry back of the hill, just like I did with my father’s arm. As I nestled there, my father dug a hole, placed the pole in it, and tethered the pole to the ground with the ropes. It stood as secure and strong as the trees in the forest, and the wind couldn't push it over no matter how hard it tried. 

 

Then my father took the stakes and pounded them into the ground in a big wide circle around the column. When he was done, he laid out the canvas sewn together from strips. It was like my mother’s beautifully spinning skirt. My father waved with his hands, like when he drew in the air, and summoned the wind. The wind caught the canvas, raised it, kneaded it as if it was a mighty sail, but never blew it away. As the wind raised the canvas, my father tied it down. First to the top of the pole, so it could caress the sky, then to the stakes, so it can caress the grass. The canvas stretched out nicely, and I banged on it like it was a big drum, so all the faraway mountains could hear that the tent was ready.

 

It became dark, but we didn’t go home. We nestled in the tent with my father. We laid out a blanket and settled down. I closed my eyes. Under me was the blanket, above me was the canvas. Beneath the blanket was the hill, above the canvas was the sky. Inside the tent, dreams caressed my eyes, outside the tent, the wind caressed the canvas, like it was whispering words. I asked the wind what it was whispering about. It asked me what I would like to hear.

– I would like to hear about my father, as he builds a tent.

– Where should he build the tent?

 – On the hilltop, from where the faraway mountains are seen.

 – What should the tent be like?

 – Spacious, so the whole family would fit.

 – What should it be made of? Wood and canvas?

 – It should be made of the hill, the lake, the forest. It should be made of the wind. And so that it can stand as steady as the distant mountains on the horizon... it should be made of fairy tales...