She boxed me—saving me, she said, for the wedding.
She shall
be my centerpiece, stand next to the cake.
That was
when she was twelve.
I was a
birthday gift to a girl who loved dolls. A girl who had
dreams,
pictured herself, apron-clad, in a sunny kitchen
fixing pot
roast for a husband, four children.
It is now 65
years later, and I’m stuck up in the attic,
like a
child’s cradle outgrown or a rocking horse
no longer
needed. And I am still in the turquoise box
with magenta
lettering proclaiming Madame Alexander.
We, the most
cherished dolls of the era. This was
before
Barbie, Cabbage Patch kids, and American Girl.
My box
itself has begun to collapse, its corners broken,
its top
dented from move after move. The wedding dress
I wear now
is tainted—tea brown with age. The lace
delicate,
ready to dissolve at the touch. My face, too, is
cracked, but
my blue eyes are still open. She takes me
out now and
then and witnesses time, acknowledges
that I never
got that center spotlight—nor did she.
How do I
feel having been boxed for decades? How does
she feel
never having had a man to hold at night,
children to
embrace? She, too, has been in a box. Hers
constructed
of societal expectations. No less imprisoned
than I. Do I
pity her? Not really. She had choices whereas
I had none.
She could have, at any time, lifted her lid,
flown over
the edge.
Nancy
Beagle, rattle.com April 11, 2024
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