As a kid, did you have a dollhouse?

When I remember my childhood, the thing I remember best is my cousin’s dollhouse. Officially, it was her place, but I was there so much that it became practically mine. Its roof was a bright red and you could open and close the little windows made of plastic. There wasn’t a single set of matching furniture, the bed wouldn’t fit in the room and the kitchen table had only one chair. I didn’t care about those issues at the time. How minute everything seemed fascinated me and being able to move the dolls made it seem like I was playing with real people.

Some of the time, the dolls represented a family, but sometimes they were simply a group of people thrust together. I had fun watching my characters argue or have one walk away and return sometime later. It wasn’t something I thought of as playing, in all honesty. I had the feeling I was guiding a silent production. The children didn’t have noisy toys or watch TV, they just saw quiet scenes with pretend emotions.

Because my dollhouse didn’t have lights, I made my own lamps from papered lids and beads. I once attached some fabric to cardboard and told myself I’d made a rug. I wanted the rooms to feel welcoming, so it seemed someone was home, even when I wasn’t there.

I didn’t really want my own dollhouse when I was younger. I’m not sure what it was, but having the red roof, missing chair and scratched kitchen felt like what made my grandmother’s house special.

I still feel a small tug in my heart when I see a little cake or piano somewhere. It doesn’t feel like sadness, it’s a gentle emotion. I get a brief reminder of the time when life was slow and easy and everything I owned was in those four walls.