A yard sale she walked by, on a sunny afternoon, September day.
Saucers and toys, books and chairs, The hands of time, the slices of life.
Among them she found a doll, golden hair and princess dress,
vivid details, a work of art. She smiled and said to herself, I gotta have this.
She is a woman in her fifties, an artist, a poet. Is it strange that one who is in mid-ages collects dolls; or is it natural, that what catches our eyes, tells that which is lost and cherished.
“twenty dollars,” said the little girl sitting on the steps, the owner of the doll. She added with a smile, “I am gonna use this money to buy a hair straightener.”
The little girl looks eleven or twelve, happy and eager to enter the world, ready to grow up. And there she was, taking bills out of her wallet, to get her childhood back.
All the years between the little girl and the artist,
All the hopes and memories between here and there.
In that golden September sun, on those steps,
They exchanged a most mysterious thing,