Doll Houses and Miniature Worlds

My grandmother collected doll houses. I remember being fascinated by them, but never having the desire to play with them. Intricately furnished, miniature worlds at the tips of her fingers. There were never people in them, only furniture, tiny crockery, handcrafted doilies on Lilliputian coffee tables. All arranged carefully with her arthritic hands. Meticulously maintained and cherished. Each room holding its own world. I remember there being 6 of them, but I'd have to check with my mother about how many there actually were. Each with its own style and decor. I wonder what made her start collecting them. Was it from a childhood robbed of play with an early divorce and a too quick death? Was it from the years of not leaving the house, but hiding behind furniture whenever a salesman knocked? Was it when she became my grandmother, doting and spoiling her favorite (and only) granddaughter? And what was it about those small houses that made my grandmother take so much time and care?

And I think about her hands, the joints swollen and bent. How carefully she placed each item. How considerately she chose each piece. And all the other things she did with such care. The letters, each week, written by hand, to me, the only one in our family to go away to college. The handmade stickers carefully cut out on delicate lines. The hand sewn Barbie clothes passed down from my mother to me, waiting for my girls to get bigger - in an attic box destroyed by fire. I think about her hands so small and frail, at the end - with too many tubes and not enough veins. Her hands who scribbled notes only I could read. I think about the money in her pocket and the candy in her purse - always giving generously to us, without ever having to ask.

And I wonder what she would think now of the worlds I have created - through my writing and with my children.