My mom had a doll when she was a little girl. It was to be her last doll. She knew that. Time to be a big girl and stop playing, after all, there were so many real babies, her other 8 siblings. But even as children, I think we know, we can see the lines we are crossing, and it was special, she was so special, this beautiful baby doll.
One of the smiling faces pictured above was the culprit. Left it outside, up a tree, in the rain. Her poor little painted face was running down into her dress. That wasn’t the way she was supposed to go. She was beautiful, and meant to be cherished. But as I think of her, I suppose she still is, cherished, I mean. I’m still telling her story.
These two aunts, my mother’s sisters, have recently passed away. So I write the stories. The stories of little girls that still play in the rain and annoy their sisters. The stories to show how fragile life is, how precious. In hopes that the words can climb the tree and stop the rain, and hold them all close, all together.
Each line. Each day. So special. So beautiful. Cherished.