A Prairie Home Companion from American Public Media: First Person

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.