This Happy Memory
My first grandchild was turning three,
sweet girl with a motherly bent.
The perfect present seemed to be
a dollhouse; so, shopping we went.
She found one not by accident -
real bells for the front and back door,
three stories, carpet on the floor
two-car garage, a three bedroom,
kitchen and bath. Who could want more?
Memory on the breeze, presumed.
She had moved on, Kid's Kraft was done.
Trying to hide my discontent,
I asked, “What is wrong with this one?”
“It’s not real.” Not like home she meant;
her place, the five-room flat they rent.
The Little People caught her eye
"Here is my house," I heard her cry.
there's mom, dad and me, just like home."
With three dolls to boot, a good buy;
no chic decor, no polychrome.
Happy memory? not so true,
but truly it is in a way.
Only one went shopping, not two.
I bought that dollhouse on display
the fancy one, for her birthday
and sensed her dissatisfaction.
Her mom had bought the other one,
small with three dolls a child could clutch.
Three’s magic, mom’s gift so much fun
while mine sat at my house untouched.
written 02/03/2018
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