Passing the dollhouse, I hear their

low voices discussing how

to find a home rehabilitation

loan, bringing back memories

of Buddy Bigford and grand-père

running amuck. Of the dollhouse

Poppy built me, the envy

of Pearl and Barbara as they stole

the silver rocking chair back and

forth.  There were Kleenix box boats,

water wars in the bath tub. Very

soggy dolls, never the same, their

faces and limbs stretched by immersion.

Tiny yellow tea sets from the historical

museum. Dolls made from wire and cotton

and my mother’s old stockings. My

alternate reality.


2 thoughts on “Dollhouse”

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