Brooke

The doll sits and stares blankly at me from the shelf above my sewing machine. It was the sentinel for my grandmother in her sewing room in the dark, cavernous house she occupied before her health declined and eventual death. I don't know where she acquired that moppet or if she stitched its wardrobe. She taught me how to sew. She allowed me to use "sharp" scissors when I was only three. We created dresses and outfits for the doll she gave to me when mother was in the hospital giving birth to my sister. Where did that doll go and why do I have this strange conglomeration of trash?