dollhouse.

October 22, 2014


I must admit that I'm not as close with my family as I'd like. When I left my hometown for college, I hardly looked back. I've lived in the city, and I've lived abroad. I've never desired to settle down in the spheres of my childhood. That being said, there is a comfort that envelopes me when I visit my grandparents' farmhouse in rural Michigan. I believe it is that same comfort that lulls my mother into a sleep on the sofa whenever she visits. Small details of the house delight me: my grandmother's tea pots lining the shelves; the large, wooden pig gracing the archway between the kitchen and the dining room; the tree in the front yard that I'd climb into and read Nancy Drew novels. And of course, the dollhouse, intricately crafted by my grandfather before his stroke and filled with the most magical, miniature items.

In the spring, I took a trip with my mother to visit my grandparents. It was then that I learned that my young cousin Josie had been gifted the dollhouse and its contents. As a child, I had received one of my own; traumatically, it was destroyed. Before they could be scooped up and packed away, I collected my favorite little items from the dollhouse, took them outside, and photographed them. I relished those little wooden books that comprised the doll library, rustic condiments for a traditional doll kitchen, and my favorite of all: those tiny, ceramic pots.

Farewell, Brer Rabbit molasses. Farewell, pots. May you be admired often, and may you be handled delicately and fondly for generations to come.

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