When we were cleaning out
the last three storage units full
of mother’s hoard
I took a standing jewelry box to contain
the last 39 of 400 necklaces I beaded—
a year-long memorial duplicating
an obsessive-compulsive disorder
I was grateful to have not inherited from my father
and my mother’s childhood doll
tucked away for decades
in a metal trunk alongside hand-carved
doll house furniture we were never allowed to play with.
I have no memory of the doll,
don’t understand its story or significance,
only know that she preserved it for over seventy years
preserved with her wedding shoes
and home sewn dress,
one yearbook, a graduation certificate,
things she considered important
were guarded.
It sits half-fallen over,
the doll face peeling and faded
hair painted on, one arm broken
placed on a shelf with my poppets—
dolls made for spells—and hat pins,
things meant to be handled, mulled-over, mauled
pierced
and if mother had a mobile spirit
I imagine she’d ask
“why don’t you treat it with love?”
