Rosemary looked plain enough. She was just a common baby doll, with plastic hands, feet, and head, and a body made of pink fabric stuffed with lumpy cotton. She usually wore a pink-and-white striped suit with a clock on it, even though she had other clothes. Sometimes I think pink was her favorite color.
But Rosemary was no ordinary doll. She had a sweet disposition. She had personality, she had feelings. And she was so affectionate, just what this little girl needed.
Rosemary and I had adventures together. She understood me when no one
else did. She was always there beside me when times were bad. I loved
Rosemary more than any material item I'd ever had. I hope she knew that.
The day came when Rosemary had lost too much of her stuffing to be operated on successfully. I'll never forget the day she died. My mother was at the kitchen sink, and behind her I saw Rosemary in the garbage, covered with food debris and used tea leaves and greasy paper towels. My heart stopped and then broke.
Soon my parents gave me another baby doll. She looked a lot like Rosemary. I named her Nadine. But we never bonded, because Nadine was just a doll. Being given Nadine after Rosemary was gone was like being given a stuffed dog after your puppy died. No one could ever take Rosemary's place.
Rosemary was the doll with something extra. And I miss her still.
Written by my 16-year-old self.
Copyright 1976-2012 Faith Louise
Nadine, I remember you. And sweet Rosemary, I will always remember you!
