Worry Dolls Sydney Severn Through the threshold of my bedroom door I am welcoming bare footsteps dry like she’s been walking in the sand, then across to the dreams knocking at the foyer of my vision. My little toes are tucked beneath the sheets and squirming in search of warmth. My mother’s hand grasps mine and with it a rough small box climbs into my fingers, but it wishes to stay closed. Yellow and scratchy. The aroma of inside reveals small woven faces of friends she wishes for me to confide in. First desperation. She whispers to them, wishing on my behalf, and my vocal chords strain to imitate my creator, to tell them what worries me incessantly -with more youth than a worrier should have; to notice the strain in my jaw and grated down fingernails. They join hands within and do the worrying for me. Thus I feel the relief (enemy of desperation) like sinking into a raincloud rather than being repelled from it. That deep breath. I wonder where it’s been hiding.
Unbound | 22
