The Road Beneath Our Feet

Summer Storm

The basement was cool that July morning—
my sister hummed as she laid her doll
in the blue wooden bed,
covered her with a tiny quilt.

I brushed my doll’s hair and opened the miniature drawer
to pick out her outfit for the day.
Later we would sit our dolls at the wooden table
and feed them bacon and eggs for breakfast.
 
Like a summer storm, my mother thundered
down the wooden stairs in her saddle shoes.
I can’t stand this mess anymore.
Then she stooped and shoved the dressers into a corner.

“Mom, please, we’ll make our playroom neat.”
The storm gathered speed.
Mom scooped up the doll beds 
and dumped them into a cardboard box.
“Mom, please, just let us keep the dolls.”

Her fingers tugged at mine, prying open a stuck latch. 
You’re too old to play with dolls.
“But Mom, I just turned eight.” 
I can’t stand the mess.

The storm subsided. 
Mom hauled the box full of dolls,
dressers, and beds up the stairs
and slammed the basement door.

With all the mess behind her,
she dumped the box on the curb
for the trash men
and headed out to weed her flower beds.

— Ann Bracken