Doll

Round face, with pink tinted cheeks, the lightest red of roses. Button nose, small and almost invisible, a small raise on the white china surface. Upturned lips, smiling delicately, painted with graceful flicks of a paintbrush coloured to match a robin’s red belly. Eyes, large and clear, framed by dark curling lashes, and irises green and sparkling like emeralds, looking somewhere into the distance, observing quietly. Hair, soft and smooth, tumbling in gentle waves, curled in dark ringlets. Small hands and small feet. A Victorian dress, red, velvet and printed in graceful curling shapes. Sitting on a soft bed.

The gentle inhale and exhale. The steady heartbeat of a child. The small chubby arm wrapped protectively over the cold inanimate doll with green eyes that stare into nowhere, ever vigilant of the sleeping form beside it. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the fluttering eyes, the way her cheek presses against the doll’s pink rounded one. The clock keeps ticking and the Sun and Moon slowly revolve, the stars twinkling away, the pink and gold sunrise peeks through the hills.

Giggling children on a short table, covered with a white cloth, with teacups arranged around. Small hands tenderly picking up the doll, fondly bringing it to the other children, being passed around, admired. Gentle hands, cradling the doll, placing a painted teacup on its rosy lips. Chubby hands, dirty but soft, holds onto the doll on the sweet fields outside. Feathery hats, lace dresses, dolls sit together, watching children run.

Cracked face, whimpering sounds, a child hand holding a piece of white china. Careful callused hands, steady and firm, glue the pieces back together. A small line on the doll’s temple. A crushing hug, gentle kisses on the cheek, and the doll is back outside. Little girls crowd around, happy the doll is mended.

Round face, on the ground, red painted lips against the wooded floor. Forgotten, arms sprawled out, dress crumpled. Small but leaner hands caress another face, another doll. Blue eyes, blonde hair, a smile that was a doppelganger of the doll clad in red.

On the floor, attentive as the child opted for the imposter. Staring at the wooden floor, memorizing the shade, retaining the texture, engraving each little detail. The clock ticks loudly, but there is no steady heartbeat. The pink and gold sunrise shines through the window, a different view at a different angle.

Unneeded, in the company of the abandoned. Whispers from lost horse figurines, forgotten parts of tea sets, missing pieces of long discarded puzzles. Light footsteps, in and out of the room, never once paying attention to the doll. The familiar hum of the furnace, the cheerful chirp of birds, the tedious pattern of the Sun and Moon, signifying the passage of time.

Round face, a crust of dust, on the highest shelf cramped at the farthest corner. Head cocked up, staring at the intricate spider webs. Blonde hair, blue dress, thrown carelessly on the shelf as well. Awkward hands, ladylike but growing, fly across shining screens. Rainbow cases, patter of keyboards and the hum of the television machine.

Peeking down, watching over the girl, sprawled across the now larger bed, a bed the red clad doll never slept on. Late night talks on the phone, the furious patter of game controls. No need of protection from the curling shadows of night.

Taller and taller the child grows, trading pigtails for long locks, pink frilly dresses for ripped jeans. Light filters through the window, as the doll watches the dust flutter down, thickening the air, adding to the thick blanket on the deepest of corners and greying its rich brown hair. Boxes of old books and sparkling crowns shoved beside the two dolls, red and blue.

Round face, wrapped in a thin piece of old clothing, lies under old photos of lost memories and forgotten friends. Box lid closes, and the loud sound of tape scratches them shut. Staring into the fading cloth, movement and the feeling of weightlessness. A loud sound as boxes hit the attic floor, creaking floorboards as people bumble down.

Sounds of laughing faint and distant, familiar smells now all vanished. A dream that ended, a life that ceased. Erased from memory. Sounds from far below. Light never comes through, the gold and pink sunrise fades from mind.

Tearing of tape, loud and clear, rings trough the foggy mist of dust. Shuffling noises, objects move above. Lifting the photos, light streaks through. Warm leathery hands, weathered with age, gently wraps around a round faced doll.

Forgotten Shadows

A melody, long forgotten, drifts away in the wind. An old teddy bear, stolen from loving arms. I wish that I can say I remember how my grandparents had tucked me to bed, that I remember calling old taxis like the proud child I was. I wish that I can say I remember what I was thinking, that I remember how it felt to know there were endless roads to endless possibilities. But all there is in that time of life is just a black, black void, an emptiness that lacks spirit, that lacks memories. Some things we remember forever. Some things we forget.

I remember being strapped on to an airplane, hurtling its way to Canada. Canada. What did that word mean to a wee child on a plane with her father whom she hardly knew? Parting with my grandparents was forlorn, my father was yet a stranger even after the few visits. I hadn't planned on leaving with him; I was a stubborn child, but in the end I had, if not unwillingly. Maybe it was the idea of living with my parents. Maybe it was because of curiosity. Maybe it had felt like the right thing to do.

I remember clutching my sister's hand in the land of Canada for she was the only person I knew, though she was a child too. The only one who held memories instead of the dark shadows following everyone else. It was dense to believe that her fingers could offer anymore protection that a potted flower, but then again, where was it truly safe? I also can remember looking up a bleak corridor of my sister's daycare at a short woman standing by the door. Was she my mother? In the strange land, she felt real. She felt safe.

Many people forget the value of the priceless treasures in their existence. They get so caught up with the 'now' and the 'future', constantly planning ahead. They devote all of their studying days to prepare for their following years, then after their job, they spend their time building a good fortune for their preceding generations. What happened to sitting back and flipping through worn photos and reliving the beautiful memories? Pictures have no words to speak when they have no one to speak to. Memories are what makes a person human. They are what makes up the souls, an important part of personality. The ones which seem to be perennial are often the first ones to fade away. How tragically wretched it is that we forget the names of our first friend. What a pity it is to forget our first teacher. How unfortunate it is to know that some friends are gone.

One time, I accidentally broke an old dilapidated laptop of my father, thinking it was tawdry. After all, he never used it, he never touched it, and it hardly turned on anyways. How wrong I was when he set rain and thunder down on the house after he discovered my folly. Little me couldn't understand why there was all this sorrow for a dingy laptop, why it was such an important computer. Couldn't he get another one? But that rusty computer was his first laptop. Back when there used to be no advanced technology, he had finally saved up enough for the computer. The software was all outdated, but it wasn't for the power that he kept it all these years; it was for the achievement. The pride of remembering the accomplishment was priceless.

Nothing is in the name of forever. Things fade overtime, forgotten promises lie deserted on vacant roads. How foolish it was to believe that the endless opportunities would follow us as we age? The doors get barred in and bolted shut with each path chosen. The ones left behind are often wistfully recalled, slipping out of reach. Some mistakes can be mourned over and built upon, while others cut deep, too deep to ever fix. Some mistakes are best left to be forgotten.

There are memories from the past like sand, the harder you try to grasp it, the quicker it slips away between fingers. The more you try to think about it, the more frustrating it becomes. A fragment of laughter, a scent of jasmine, pinch of colour. Sometimes, the memoirs slowly float back like haunting mirages when you lie down and think, "I remember." The shadows from the past click and find a place in the mind. But sometimes, it is best to just forget.

The Start of Chicken Sunday

(This is a story extension of the book Chicken Sunday by Patricia Polacco)

The room smelled of spicy candle light and warm wood. A hushed silence made me feel relaxed. The priest spoke of prayers of forgiveness, protection, and love and I bowed my head at his words. I wasn't a baptist like my neighbours Stewart, Winston or their grandmother, Miss Eula, but I considered them as my own, so I always went with them. However today, I listened to every prayer said in the church and prayed with them. Today was the anniversary of my babushka’s death and I hoped that all was well for her in Heaven. 

After a final ‘Amen’, we stood up and walked out of the church. The air was cool and sweet as it blew through my hair. I hugged myself against the cold and Miss Eula admonished me for wearing so little. “My girl, you will be as frozen as a popsicle if we don't hurry you home!” she exclaimed. When I parted with Stewart and Winston, they each gave me a hug. “Don’t worry,” Stewart told me, “she’s in a happy place now.” I smiled back at him and entered my house.

My mother sat in the kitchen peeling an apple when I walked in. The kitchen was missing the delicious aroma of the chicken soup my babushka would always make for me. It was missing the warmth and livelihood of the different spices she would use. It was missing the smell of home. I remembered her bringing the bowl of chicken soup to me on the cold frosty days like today. She would set it on the table and remind me to be careful of the heat. She scolded me when I ran to her if I burnt my tongue; she would then give me a nice cup of lemonade. 

After lunch, there was a soft but firm knock on the door. My mother opened it and I rushed down of the sound of Miss Eula’s voice. “We know this is a hard time for both of you so we decided to keep you company,” she explained to my mother. Stewart and Winston gave me big smiles and waves as my mother invited them inside. Though I enjoyed the company of our neighbours, I missed the funny stories my babushka would tell me before I went to sleep, and the ways she’d comfort me. I started to tear up at her absence. Winston and Stewart were quiet as a mouse because they didn't know what to do about my sudden breakdown. Miss Eula smiled at me and marched into the kitchen while rolling up her sleeves. My mother sat down next to me on the couch and gave me tissues to wipe my eyes.

Clang! Thunk! Bang! The kitchen was making all sorts of sounds and noises as Miss Eula began to prepare … chicken? She was fumbling around for ingredients and soon enough, my nose picked up on a wave of delight. My stomach grumbled and 40 minutes later, she came out holding a big plate of fried chicken! Gravy was poured on top and there was a mixture of spices I never knew we even had. "I know this isn't the chicken soup that your babushka made for you, but I couldn't find the broth!” she frowned for a second. “This is an old traditional meal that my grandparents used to make for me as a child,” she smiled. I looked upon the golden feast and smiled back at her. It smelled of heavenly warmth and nature’s wonders. It smelled like home. 

The following Sunday, we hurried home after church. The air was filled with a frosty flurry of snow! Though each flake held its own tiny miracle and blanketed the road with its beauty, it was cold. We weren’t prepared for the first snowfall of the year. Stewart whooped and jumped in a pile of fresh snow and Winston was right on his heel. However, Miss Eula scowled at the boys and pulled them out. They didn’t have enough sweaters on and their pants were already frozen over. She told us to come home for dinner before donning our coats to play in the snow. 

Stewart, Winston and I jumped inside the warmth of Miss Eula’s home. Shaking off the bits of white that clung to our bodies, we made our way into the kitchen. The winter wonderland beckoned us to run outside and make snow angels, but we were starving. We sat in front of Miss Eula’s T.V. while she went to prepare our dinner. When we were called to sit and say our prayers Winston frowned. “You’re not making chicken again this Sunday?” he whined. Miss Eula blinked. “You kids want to eat my chicken again?” We looked at each other and grinned. “Of course we do!” I smiled at her. “We want the chicken every Sunday after church!” Miss Eula scratched her white little head and considered it for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” she told us and went back into the kitchen to meet our requests.

Our dinner time was prolonged but no one complained. With our lovely meal, my nose picked up on the ghost of my babushka’s soup and her smile on my lips. I knew at this moment, she was with me. Miss Eula would never replace her, no, people cannot be replaced. Instead, Miss Eula and her two boys would live in another place in my heart, a place that was meant for them.