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Dolls by Maria Brady-Smith July 26, 2007 We always played with her dolls. They were better than mine. Each had the same perfectly round blinking eyes, a look of perpetual surprise, and the same pursed and pouty lips. Each was overdressed in the hypothetical costume of a different country. Since they were her dolls, she directed the play. 'Orphanage' was her favorite dramatic tragedy. She was the poor, sweet orphan. I was the cruel and miserly matron. "Now,you tell me that I have to go to bed with no supper," she'd say. I complied because I liked her dolls. "Let's pretend that you lock all the orphans in the closet. I calm them down by giving them a crust of my stale bread and telling them a bedtime story." Eventually, I got tired of playing the abuser to her victim. I stayed at home with my own scrubby, well-loved dolls,v their matted hair, their clothes cut from fabric scraps. Years later, I saw her on the street. Mid-winter cold, dark hooded coat wrapped around her skelital frame, her remote eyes, grave face shockingly emaciated. I did not yet know the word 'anorexia.' But I understood that she had become her own victim, her own abuser. About the author: I live in Washington, MO with my husband and three daughters. I work for the local school district. I love writing and usually I write poetry. I have some poems published and won some awards for poetry. | | | |
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