Story Problem

The dog’s giving me that look that says, I know what you do behind closed doors. Someday those rooms, all those doors, will disappear. Goodbye, sovereignty. What will you do then? Where will you put things? Like puzzling out a story problem in sixth grade math, the kind your dad had to help with but couldn’t always, which made him mad. Like it was the problem’s fault, not his. Someone made it up, the two trains, the destinations, speed, steam, sound. X. It’s all made up, like a doll’s face, a doll on a shelf looking in a mirror. The mirror looking back. Waiting for the little chest to rise. Fall. The doll begging for the doll’s consent.  end