| she is trapped in her little dollhouse, dreaming of Skipper's life. now the dollhouse splinters and snaps as she grows older and older, unable to hold on for much longer, sending the tiny porcelain tea set, the miniature plastic miniature schnauzer, the inch long page less plastic Bible, the plasti-glass chandeliers, the three bright and blonde and blue eyed rubber chicken children and handsome Malibu Ken, the glued down delicious thanksgiving TV dinners served on mini Tupperware and a checkered tablecloth, the twin beds in the master bedroom, the bunk beds in the "girl's" room, the makeshift Hotwheels race car shaped bed in her son's room, the silent wooden television with painted on knobs, the Lay-Z-Boy made from a baby�s shirt, the dishes, the toys and everything in between through the edges of her crumbling walls, dirty and soiled and leaking and broken and crying and creaking and cracking and shattering from the long, long years. |
