Horoscope and Poem

 Dorothy believed  in astrology, or told herself so, and she faithfully followed her horoscope. Granted, she read the more detailed findings that dealt with placement of planets, cusps and such. I did not believe in horoscopes, in the past or at present.  But I read the horoscope, Capricorn, every single day now, as a way to remember her. And  I'm directed to mine also, trying to pretend she's contacting me  in some way. Anyway, my latest reading said I should write a poem. So here it is:

      (I'm unable to single space, so will write my "poem" in paragraph form for now.)            LONG AGO

At the house on the hill, I see my father getting out of  his ride-share car, being dropped off from work.

          Besides his black metal lunchbox with the silver clasp, he is holding something else in his other hand. It is a little make-believe house. In the time when toys of any sort were a rarity, I didn't know it was actually a doll house, having no concept of that. Someone at work had given it to him, and it was now mine; my sister was too little, still a baby.

     The house was wood, with a front that opened and exposed the entire interior. There were no figures or items of any kind, but the walls were papered with scenes appropriate for each room. The house had two stories. The upstairs had bedrooms, with flowered wallpaper and pictures of the bedroom furniture. The bathroom was upstairs too, and on the walls were pictures of all that a bathroom should hold. The downstairs had the kitchen, with pictures of stove and icebox, kitchen table, etc., and the living room had a full suite of living room furniture--couch, chairs, and some lamps, blue, I think. 

      There were no doll figures, or even actual toy furniture, and I played with that little house on a regular basis.  I was very young and I used my imagination to picture myself in that house, visiting all its rooms, the rooms with pictures and  vases of flowers all depicted on the papered walls. I didn't know what else there was to do.

                                            NOW

     I'm sitting this night in my living room, in a chair against the inner wall. The lights are off, except the Christmas Tree is lighted. It is an artificial  tree, and it seems to blend in against the front window, as if a framed picture. The chair is beside it, unoccupied.  A bookcase is along an adjoining wall, containing books, or maybe pictures of books. A couch is against the wall, as if a prop.  And a cabinet is in the corner of the room, its glass front displaying curios and small pictures seen only by me, the viewer from outside. The living room presents as a tableau, with no figures to be moved around. All I can do is try to insert myself into the setting.