The Doll House

Behind the scaled-down images there lurk the scaled down dreams of future lives-- perhaps of incarnations silently recalled by little girls with vision far less blind than little boys, who would forsake the gate and scarcely see the whitewashed picket fence along Peace Lane. We walked together, she and I, and gained or lost a century without a care, then pausing there untouched by age or time, were suddenly at home, and though it was too much inclined to the postiche and far too lovely, she and I could then perform a step into dimensions that I only thought I knew. Of course it was a given, she would lead me to another view, though I protest a movie-set facade so much a part of someone else's dreams, for it spoke more of me than comfort would allow. I saw a book of life in which the pages mocked my own somnambulistic journey home, my own defense against reality. And then we saw the open side, and there the little rooms cut out, showed little beds and chairs that may be moved about, but strange... the tiny people always stayed away as if the president would come to call, and they are suddenly unworthy. There the little souls might sleep or sip at tea with giants watching, if they dared, but no, the house is empty, much too quiet, too pristine, and even presidents would presidentially demur. She took my hand, and asked me if I like it. I, too, broke the silence, "Yes. I think it's grand. Might it be one that you would live in?" "No, it's beautiful" she said, "but never home enough, for me." ~