Porcelain Doll

January 4, 2011
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Snow lightly fell that December while we
Walked through the icy streets, mother a step behind
Trying to keep up with my rushing excitement.
Overheating in our parkas and fur mittens, our
Arms drag with the weight of shopping bags.

I spot the tiny glass beauty behind black
Store glass that mirrors my pink-flushed face.
Mother elegantly towers behind me
As we admire the artists perfection

She stares blankly, enviable blue-glass eyes,
Hand painted red smile, gold curls flowing
Delicately past her shoulders, down her back,
Such a darling face

I begged mother, small hands clasped
To own this fragile doll.

For years she sat, gathering dust
On the top shelf of my room,
Remaining lovely and dear as
I age.

Now she lies in a coffin lined with newspaper
On a lonely shelf in my dark closet, hidden
From the world, and from
Me, my imperfections,
Her ageless glory something I could never obtain
I can’t stand the sight of her.

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