Who would buy a crying doll for a little girl? What little girl, besides me, would want or appreciate one? Did the little girl refuse the doll? Did a parent decide that the tears were too morbid? Did something happen to the little girl, and the parents couldn’t bear to keep the doll?
I trace my finger over the tears, so real that I expect them to be wet. I touch her pursed lips, imagining a faint puff of breath. I run my hand over her soft hair, tuck the teddy bear into her arms.
I think I will keep this doll, sit her in my bedroom on the rocking chair, with her bear, and contemplate her tears. She will be my new baby; she will never lose her illusions and dreams, never grow into an ugly, spiteful, malevolent adult, and she will never desert me.