Thirteen

When I first started painting my nails,

it used to remind me that I was only a little girl.

I would sit on our kitchen floor at night,

where my mom spent most of her time.

I wondered if that kitchen was like her doll house.

So many possibilities to organize things; by color, size and shape etc. 
Everything waiting patiently behind closed doors, waiting for that peek-a-boo.

It would be really easy to think that everything
-your kids, your marriage, your alarm clock that wakes you up so you can make breakfast for your husband before he goes to work-is all fake.

There was this huge wooden case with glass doors

where my mom put her teacups she collected.

It might as well be called a sarcophagus.