Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

The Doll Maker #8 — Were there more, scary, cracked talking dolls?

I dug, tossing papers, photos, and old books all about the dusty attic floor.

Wait, I can’t do this; I must sort these into piles like the rest of them or I’ll never figure this out. I’m doing this for my family; for history after I’m gone.

Getting honest with myself, I realized I really wanted information to spice up my rather dull family memoir.

I wanted to know if one of my ancestors made the dolls in the playroom that we’d all enjoyed as children. Then I find all kinds of strange stuff; recipes — for what? Odd symbols — is witchcraft in my family?

Oh crap, what am I doing? I was just talking to a doll who talked back! Not a Chatty Cathy either! What’s going on?

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Lather your words
rinse and repeat,
the world has left you somewhat bruised
and your blisters have departed in the lurch.

Injured is not how you define yourself.
Brave is what you wake up to
with your morning coffee.
Poetry finds its serenity
woven within your chaos,
your mind unraveling
truth and lies,
and weaving them
into words,
that reduce you to tears
as you air-fry what remains of your reflections
on a typical Tuesday afternoon.

Thank you to Katie Michaelson and the editors of The Daily Cuppa for providing no sweeter a place to read, write and create on Medium.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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