The Lost Girl

I grudgingly accepted. I’d never warmed to my Uncle Sidney, for reasons I can neither recall nor truly understand. He’s a lone figure that traipses through my childhood memories, with no ropes of sentiment or emotion binding him to me. I hadn’t seen him for decades, a state I remained entirely ambivalent about. Much as I opposed the idea, I didn’t want to seem unwelcoming, so it was decided he would come and stay. Pretending to be happy about this, I put the phone down.

The doll, slumped as usual against the wall, stared at me. Dolls can’t look at people, so I suppose I mean that I was staring at it. Either way, our eyes met. I know as much as the next sane person that she’s just an inanimate object, but there’s still something human about her that appeals to me. I suppose she makes me feel nostalgic.

My Uncle arrived a few weeks later, and it was clear he had succumbed to the pitfalls of age as much as the poor doll on the mantelpiece. His face was mapped with creases and dips, grey eyes sunk back into their sockets. His hair, once thick and auburn, has been reduced to smoky grey tufts between canyons of bare scalp.

“Diane…” his greeting was cold, distant. “Nice of you to have me.”

“My pleasure…”

He’d brought a stuffy grey armchair from home, and I seated him in it carefully. Dust clung to it like creeping ivy. We seated him few feet away from the TV. The doll was almost hidden from view, tucked away in the corner of his eye. I saw him turn, glance at it, and immediately withdraw his gaze.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)