I loved that Fisher-Price dollhouse,
the one that sat in the corner of my room
under the window, so the weather of
the real world reflected the toy house.

I loved the tiny people in their tiny clothes,
not fickle like Barbie and her unending wardrobe.
These dolls stuck with one outfit their whole lives.
They were creatures of habits, these dolls.

And they all had one expression, these dolls.
A perpetual look of glee, on every doll, like
just one face had been made for every boy,
girl, grandma, dad, and even the pet dog.

I loved the tiny interior of the house as well,
the detailing so similar to a real house, but tiny.
I loved the miniature tiles in the bathroom,
and the minuscule jewelry on the vanity dresser.

I loved playing with the dollhouse for the power trip as well,
to be in command for once, as a child, to make the rules
and enforce them as I wished. I sometimes long for that
on days like today, when I feel like I have no control of my life.

When I was extremely little, my parents would take
my brother and me to church, before we got too busy
with life, too busy to spare an hour each Sunday
to sit in pews and listen to priests talk about God

And in my youth, knowing not much about religion,
I used to wonder if maybe I was a doll. Maybe God
had made the world as one large toy store, and we all lived
tiny insignificant lives in dollhouses.