Houses


The first one I constructed grew from the
white cardboard pieces hiding inside my
father’s starched shirts. I slipped these out,
cut them down for walls, bent and taped
them together to make the whole house,
then put it on the floor of my room. 

There were little cardboard tables and chairs, 
tiny beds with cotton-ball pillows and napkin
blankets. Then came the paper-doll family who 
would live there—mother, father, children,
and small brown dog—all these brought to
life from my Crayola box of colors.

Lying on my stomach and hanging off the side
of my bed, I hovered over my creation,
maneuvering little people from one room
to another, bringing them dawn and dusk,
breakfast and dinner. Laughter and tears
rounded the corners of their given days.

Decades later, my granddaughter played dolls 
in the carefully constructed house her grandfather 
made her, its shingled roof and painted rooms 
a showplace, the tiny beds so real I wanted to 
shrink and lie down in one. Now it gathers dust 
in a corner of my daughter’s guest room.

Count up all the houses—all we’ve dreamed 
or lived in. Like children at play we make them, 
believe in them, people them with family and friends. 
And they remember us—windows open, doors
unlocked and swinging in the wind. They call us
to stop by, and sometimes—sometimes we do.