The last thing Emily packed was the dollhouse-sized mid-century furniture her grandfather made by hand. A teak round coffee table. A Formica and chrome kitchen table with rust painted on its metal legs. A rosewood stereo console with working speakers and a thin wire connectable to a radio. The yellow lounge chair with actual upholstery, batting, and foam. The miniatures were like the furniture in her grandparents’ house. He’d begun making the tiny artifacts after Emily’s grandmother died.
He showed the family his handiwork, held the models in his palm, and beamed like a boy who’d found a geode in a dry creek bed. They found it amusing. Emily never had a dollhouse. Neither did her mother. Nonetheless, at Christmas, birthdays, for no reason, they’d accept these insignificant tokens of remembrance. He never seemed to mourn her but worked away grief in his basement shop. Emily would miss the smell of glue and the hot gun. As she put the mockups in the box, she wondered who would want them.
Bio: Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.
This story was shortlisted in the January 25 Monthly Micro Competition.