A Shelter of Dolls

Perhaps it began with the ornaments -- fabric scraps
turned into mushrooms and teddy bears, flowers, birds, felt
storybook characters accurate down to the last
extra half-hour. You never saw such a tree. Or generosity,
how they would go to relatives, friends, neighbors just
over for coffee. Casual. As though right then
nothing else mattered. As though
this one didn't take more than a day to make,
production line in her living room all year long.

Or earlier, purpose like security going
before four children were grown -- or nearly, two
still at home when their step-father isn't
fighting with them (his own, she says, lie and steal), or they
aren't fighting their real father, thrown out of school --
their pictures in oils in the living room, forever small.

It's nobody's fault, she says, they're good kids,
they help with charities, Children's Services, church
bazaars she's always in charge of -- all summer, rummage sale
items in her garage, collecting like Saturday re-runs,
some things don't change all at once.
Ihe youngest has all the boys after her.

Myself, I remember an answer from church camp.
Thirteen, I asked why people grew up. To have
children, our group leader said, so they some day can have
their own children. All he left out
curing tomorrow like salt, the girl on the label
spilling it, each time smaller, her picture
within a picture within her own hands
smaller, smaller, smaller.

~Ingrid Wendt