ILYPANTS.NET
Notes to Stephanie: Days Remembered
One day when we were at the Will
Rogers Flea Market you spied an old, big doll. It was one of those dolls that
seemed to come out of the 1950s or 60s.
It was about two feet tall and had on a dirty cream colored dress. Its face and cheeks were dirty like the face
of a little kid who had been out playing in the mud. You liked it, bought it, and took it home.
Once we got home you put it on your
dresser standing upright with its eyes looking out blankly towards the mirror
on the opposite wall. She sat there for a short period of time until you began
to remake her, to clean her up, and restore her to the beauty she once had when
she belonged to some little girl whose identity shall remain forever unknown.
You removed her little dress and
washed it. You cleaned her skin and face
like you would have done your own kids when they were little. I remember you standing her back up all clean
again. She was almost back to normal
then. But she lacked one thing, some
proper hair.
When I lived on the east side of
town there was a doll store near my old house I used to take my daughter
too. Jane would walk up and down the
aisles staring in little girl wonder at the many pretty and made up dolls. I took you there one Saturday to look for a
new mop of hair for your little doll, now looking almost new again.
Like my little girl you walked up
and down the aisles looking at the many dolls, it seemed you were looking for
ideas on how to dress her up. Then you
talked to the lady who ran the shop and asked if they sold new pieces of hair
for dolls. She did and you bought a
brown wig for your new little girl and took it home.
You took the little hairpiece out
of the box it came in and put it on the doll.
Then she looked complete, remade and transformed from a dirty waif to the
image of a proper young girl. She looked
more alive than ever, her eyes no longer stared blankly it seemed. She seemed
to be almost animate with her pretty new hair and her clean, long dress. And thus she adorned our bedroom with her new
found glory, saved from perhaps being thrown out with the trash by someone who
no longer wanted her.
The important thing about this
series of events was not how well she cleaned up but instead how you made the
doll a metaphor for your own life. Like
the doll you described how you were discarded but in the end had found
belonging and beauty at last. In that
way, you and the doll were one, perhaps even twins. Both of you were left by
those who should have kept and treasured your beauty. Then later in life others
found you and saw your quiet grace and cleansed away the layers of life’s grit
from you so your natural splendor could be seen.
We should all hope that in our
darkest hour someone will pick us up and wash away the dirty grime of existence
that hides our shining, inherent glory and be given a new life just as you gave
one to that lonely and almost forgotten doll.