chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

doll…

doll by jik

How old was I when I made this doll? Maybe 7 or 8? Old enough to wield a needle and thread but young enough to treasure a raggedy little doll of my own design.

I examine her, and my memory, for clues. She is the plain cotton of an old sheet or pillowcase. The top of her head, where the hair is stitched on, is a fold, which means the whole doll was cut out of a single piece of fabric, the two halves conjoined at the top of the head. Folding the right sides together, I stitched part way round her contours, then — and here I recall — turned her right side out, poked out her arms and legs with my finger, stuffed her with bits of fabric and sewed up the remaining edges. Without proper seam allowances and the clipping of curves, which I would only learn about years later in my junior high sewing class, some of the turned edges are exposed and frayed.

She is two-sided — one side asleep, the other awake — the difference indicated by the crayoned eyelashes and faded pajamas on the sleeping side, the blue jeans and striped shirt on the waking side. Each strand of hair is carefully darkened with black crayon.

Both sides are smiling.

Tucked into a pocket, riding in a cigar box, sitting on top of a picture frame, handled or ignored, she has survived, no matter which way I turn her smiling up from my childhood where, already, I was figuring out how to create things from scraps.

One response to “doll…

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