dollhouse

We traveled back by motor boat—

our bellies full of ice cream,

cherishing the last moments of quite a long day

at the beginning of what would be quite a short week.

It was the end of the summer,

and, for us, the end of the summer

might as well have meant the end.

By August, our time together was all we remembered knowing.

Anything before was a blur;

perhaps important to us in some other life,

but irrelevant to this:

our era on the lake—

an era that was quickly coming to a close.

So, we toured the lake.

We held our own sort of private parade

through dimly-lit water where we had spent a season in the sun.

It was dark, but we knew the way

back to the shore of our camp;

we could find it when we needed,

but we didn't need it quite yet.

Instead, we boldly pioneered into coves unfamiliar,

guided by the warm, yellow lights of homes along the shore.

I know that we passed window after window on that last voyage,

but I only recall seeing one.

As we drew near to the house, light from inside illuminated the whole structure—

every chair

and table

and book

and shelf was revealed through

one

wide

pane

of glass,

stretching high above

the head of a man

sitting inside.

This dollhouse,

with walls cut away,

disclosed and betrayed

the private life of its inhabitant—

confessed his secrets to us,

the silent tourists of the lake.

Did the man know he was being watched?

That his dollhouse was on display?

That I, from darkness, stared into his light

while he, from brightness, looked out upon the night?