Remodeling
More than 20 years ago, my grandmother built a doll house for me. I remember the weeks of time that she and my grandfather spent on it. I remember her painting the house blue, and then changing her mind and painting the house pink. I remember her meticulous handling of miniatures, how she created little picture frames and rugs and houseplants out of things she had in her sewing basket. I remember how proud she was of her work. And it was beautiful work. The house lived with me for many years and saw hours of play. It would be decorated for different holidays, serve as a hideout for my brother's GI Joe guys, and spent ample time as a clothes hanger. For the last 10 years or so, the house has been rotting in my parents' garage. Pieces broken off, inhabited by small creatures of various kinds, covered in dust, but still occupying enough space in my heart to keep me standing between my memories and the dumpster. Possessed by I don't know what, I have declared this year The Chri...