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Memories of a Doll
The corner is dark. This wooden chest hasn’t been moved in years. The only things that have moved are the dust and the cobwebs. Here I’ve sat, years on end.
I used to remember what light and color looked like. I used to remember what moving felt like, what freedom was. I was loved once. That, I remember most of all.
I was a little girl’s best friend. I was her constant companion. Tea time, whispered secrets, hop scotch and adventures in the garden; all had in the span of a day. It seems like it was just yesterday that we imagined a flowerbed to be some exotic jungle and hoped to spy a lion, a tiger, or even a bear.
Then came the day, that horrible, awful day. We were in the park. An older, bigger girl made her cry. Had called her a “baby” for playing with “that dumb old dolly!” All the way home she ran, not caring how I’d flailed in the wind.
This chest, this very wooden chest, the first to catch her eye; into this chest she threw me. She looked down at me, tears in her eyes. Her face was red with anger and shame. At first, she left me there, lying on my back and all a-kilter. Soon after, she gently sat me upright, fixed my dress, and smoothed my hair. Ever so gently, the lid came down and a soft, hesitant click was heard.
Oh, the many, many times I’ve played this in my head. How I wish, that right then, I could speak. To comfort her. To console her. To remind her that a bully is as a bully does. Is throwing a friend away the price one must pay to be accepted? Is a bully’s opinion worth more than a friend?
Most of all, I miss my friend.
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Questions and comments welcome!
I used to remember what light and color looked like. I used to remember what moving felt like, what freedom was. I was loved once. That, I remember most of all.
I was a little girl’s best friend. I was her constant companion. Tea time, whispered secrets, hop scotch and adventures in the garden; all had in the span of a day. It seems like it was just yesterday that we imagined a flowerbed to be some exotic jungle and hoped to spy a lion, a tiger, or even a bear.
Then came the day, that horrible, awful day. We were in the park. An older, bigger girl made her cry. Had called her a “baby” for playing with “that dumb old dolly!” All the way home she ran, not caring how I’d flailed in the wind.
This chest, this very wooden chest, the first to catch her eye; into this chest she threw me. She looked down at me, tears in her eyes. Her face was red with anger and shame. At first, she left me there, lying on my back and all a-kilter. Soon after, she gently sat me upright, fixed my dress, and smoothed my hair. Ever so gently, the lid came down and a soft, hesitant click was heard.
Oh, the many, many times I’ve played this in my head. How I wish, that right then, I could speak. To comfort her. To console her. To remind her that a bully is as a bully does. Is throwing a friend away the price one must pay to be accepted? Is a bully’s opinion worth more than a friend?
Most of all, I miss my friend.
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I really really REALLY like this short story Sarah! Keep 'em coming!
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