Monologues of Inanimate Objects #6: Tutu Talking

I miss Renee’s hands on me.

The delicate work she does.
Her careful, deliberate hands.
Warm. They radiate heat, her hands.
She smells like cinnamon. She named me Pearl.

She talks to me. Each morning:
Hello Pearl, my beauty. How did you sleep?
When she says my name I shiver.


The sound of her voice
Like snowfall.

Each stitch, each stroke of the embroidery thread
Pulls her closer to the end of her work,
Pulls me closer to the bright stage with its savage lights,
And away from the humming warmth of this room.
I will soon know other hands
Hands tugging me onto a lithe body
Hands gripping me tightly to lift me in the air.

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