The Dollhouse… an essay

It is a pink dollhouse. It is small, dim, and perhaps uncomfortable. My grandfather built it with his friends for me. It is in the backyard. I go often to play with my dolls. They are all sitting on the floor where I serve them coffee or tea in my tea set. I talk to them while we drink. Of course they are silent. But, I don’t care.

I keep talking to them as if they listened intently to my every word. They, however, sustain a cold stare with their glassy eyes. One of them looks a little like me. Her dark curly hair shining on her head. Her skin is so soft and tender like porcelain. She sits perfectly composed while I babble and serve her coffee. Maybe she is trying to tell me something. Or maybe she wants me to be like her: a quiet, silent, passive doll with glassy eyes that don’t see and a mind that does not think.

I can’t sit quietly with my dolls too long. Tired of talking to them, I look outside, restless, looking and searching. I actually need to think.