As the car pulled out of the driveway, Carrie looked back. The willow tree waved in the wind. Through the dusty rear window, she could just see the little crooked door.
Subject: “Carries Playhouse”
On rainy afternoons, the playhouse became a ship. The willow branches were sails, and the drumming rain on the tin roof was the sound of cannons from enemy frigates. Carrie would hold the chipped teacup like a spyglass and shout orders to her imaginary first mate, a brave mouse named Captain Biscuit. carries playhouse
She didn’t cry. She smiled.
On sunny mornings, it was a bakery. She’d sneak sugar cookies from the kitchen and arrange them on a leaf platter. She’d serve mud pies with dandelion sprinkles to her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Puddles, who was, of course, the mayor of a nearby town. As the car pulled out of the driveway, Carrie looked back
It was a Tuesday in late August. Her mother sat her down at the kitchen table, where the sunlight made a square on the checkered cloth. “Carrie,” she said softly, “you know how we’ve been looking at new houses?”
She didn’t have words for what she felt. She was only seven. But she understood, somehow, that this little wooden box had been a door. Not a door into a ship or a bakery, but a door into herself. The person she was when no one was watching. She didn’t cry
“We found one,” her mother said. “We move in four weeks.”