I’m burning my daughter’s dollhouse.

 

I’m burning my daughter’s dollhouse

Please don’t tell her.
Not that she’d want it.
She’s 40, lives far away.

The furnace broke,
there’s no sunshine in December
and I’m burning my daughter’s dollhouse
that I built with scraps of pine from a paying job
for a Nobel Prize professor of economics,
a fancy wall of bookshelves that I underbid
one cold December long ago
for a moneyless Christmas
full of joy.

I’m burning my daughter’s dollhouse
that I painted white with a roof of red
with finger-size doors on tiny hinges.
From bits of wire I made tiny coat hangers.
From scraps of mahogany I made
a double bed for the mommy and daddy
plus three small beds and a cradle
that I oiled and polished until they glowed
so she could be proud.

I’m burning my daughter’s dollhouse
where meals were cooked,
where babies were born,
where children grew until gone.
Giving warmth, an orange flame
tinged with blue.

……

First published in Steam Ticket

Note: In December of 2018 my furnace broke, so I was depending on my fireplace—for six weeks, midwinter. At the same time I was cleaning out my garage and burning stuff for heat. Some I regret…