I’d save every penny I could in order to buy tiny furniture and food, pictures and plastic puppies for my very first household: a two-story, six room, pale yellow Colonial with black shutters, rose-filled window boxes and a square footage of about 3.
I’d place my tiny, new items in their tiny, little places, house proud and satisfied, and then move on to other interests. Returning some time later to admire each new addition to my dollhouse collection, I’d regularly find that someone (Jim) had committed tiny house horrors in my brief absence.
One such day still haunts my childhood memories.
As I came around the front facade, having just fake-watered my fake flowers, the first thing I saw was a pant-less father indelicately on top of mother in the four poster bed upstairs, while in the bathroom, the next room over, the baby was headfirst in the toilet.
In the kitchen just below, I soon discovered grandmother’s old, grey-haired head had been stuck in the oven of the cast iron stove. (Despite the fact that it was a wood burning model, James.)
I can still see the soles of her sensible grandma shoes.
My eyes scanned right to the living room, where I found the little girl of my little world.
Sitting at the piano.
Hands at the keys.
Staring straight ahead.
I shivered, then wondered about the boy.
The only place left was the attic.
I slowly lifted the shingle roof of my little, pale yellow, Colonial house with black shutters and rose-filled windows boxes.
He was no where to be scene.
Then I saw the trunk.
Oh, the humanity.