The Doll
The Doll
When mum went to work at the fish factory, there was no
money for baby-sitters; she gave me a black rag doll, to play
with. The doll, called Tom, was a caricature and today would
be seen as an insult. We had no radio or TV, and in the long
hours, when it rained and I could not go out, Tom became my
friend. Mum didn’t believe me when I said Tom could talk, but
only when we’re alone. School began I had new friends, and
boys don’t play with dolls; Tom ended up at the bottom of
a drawer. Forty years later I found Tom, in a shoe-box in
the basement, his fuzzy head rested on a pillow. I thought of
the time when he could talk. I put him back in the box and
taped the lid. Tom is dead, so is my childhood. In the stillness
I hear winds of coming chill, blow leaves along the asphalted
lane and far from where it all began.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
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