Taking part in the Ann Dee Ellis 8-Minute Memoir Writing Challenge. This is Day Five.
Tucked away in a lavender-scented wooden box, amid letters and curl-edged photographs, is an antique cotton hankercheif with a crocheted edge. Folded up carefully in the soft cotton is a woolen star, hand dyed in a gentle rainbow hue, with a small pocket. The pocket holds a tiny doll, no bigger than my thumb, crafted in the manner of German woolen puppin, simple and featureless.
Over time, the wool felt of the star has frayed, but the baby remains perfect, nestled in its pocket, wrapped in soft cotton.
No one looking at this would think it was anything at all. It’s moth-eaten piece of wool with a lumpy, nondescript doll. It’s meaningless. What is it? Is it a necklace? Is it a toy? Is it for a child?
I swallow hard. Yes, it’s for a child, but not a child you’re thinking of …
This is my memory alone.