Shoes, Books, Dolls

There's so much activity outside the house. It's being prepped for some party. It all seems so... Town and Country. I'm engulfed with a sense of guilt that I wasn't around to help with all the fixing, polishing and repairing. There are pathways where there were once brambles. Everything is shiny and new. The garage has been transformed into some lobby with a lot of leather seats. When I get to my room, I see they've changed it but only a little. Over one wall they put a mirror and some kind of slated window over it.

I stay in my room touching everything in disbelief. I re-arrange my shoes according to color and function. I fix my books according to continent. I plop down on my single bed which was Daddy's single bed. I do everything to mark my territory because somewhere in the back of my mind is a nagging thought that I moved out of this house a long time ago, that I live somewhere else now -- somewhere else where a dog is waiting for me, that I'm merely trespassing on property that belongs to someone else, that all this: this room, these shoes, these books and dolls and yes, this bed I am stubbornly lying on is just a dream.