Her Doll on My Bed I look at the doll, the doll on my bed. She has bright, shining hair, hair that’s strawberry red.
I gaze into her glassy, baby-blue eyes, baby-blue eyes that stare back at me. Her warm, little smile reminded me of my mother, my mother’s smile that filled me with glee.
“Why so sad, poor little girl?” “I am a poor little girl and that’s why I’m sad.” She looked at me confused. My mother and her doll were all that I had.
I shed a tear, looking at that doll’s face, that doll’s face that told me I missed her. Her hug felt so real and comforting, comforting when I heard “I love you” in a whisper.
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