Down the stairs and to the left, stands the storeroom door,
Boxes filled with clothes outgrown, stacked on cement floor,
In dark corner hid from sight, a kitchen cabinet,
Except its built in minature, child's toy, it is, but yet...
Nearly fifty years ago, on bright and sunny morn,
To carpenter and his young wife, a baby girl is born,
Carpenter in basement toils, while others sleep at night,
Saws and nails, and sands so smooth, then paints a perfect white.
White cupboard filled with plastic plates, teacups on top shelf,
Down below a doll or two, can't play all by one's self,
On cold and snowy afternoons; in heat of summer sun,
To the kitchen Daddy built, a little girl would run.
But daughters grow, and have their own, and fathers pass away,
Little girl with grandpa's gift, does with her dollies play,
Grandaughters grow, and they too wed, and also move away,
In the storeroom down the stairs, white cabinet does stay.
Someday a daughter will be born; from the storeroom gotten,
A child's toy built in minature, stored but ne'er forgotten,
For this cracked and weathered toy, is so much more you see,
A child's toy yes, it is but yet, 'tis precious memory.
[This message has been edited by Mike (edited 04-16-2000).]