When I was an infant, I got a rag doll.
It was a very plain, little doll, and it wore a clown outfit and a clown’s hat.
I used to take that doll to bed with me every night.
I couldn’t go to bed without my doll.
My mother used to pretend that the doll was talking to me.
She would make the doll dance and sing songs.
I would talk to the doll.
My mother would answer for the doll, but I was a baby, and I thought that the doll was
actually talking to me.
That doll was my best friend.
I took her everywhere.
One time I took her to a store with me, and I left her on a shelf in the store.
We were halfway home when I realized that I didn’t have my doll with me.
I was very upset.
My mother and I rushed back to the store.
My doll was still there.
I was so relieved.
I hugged my doll, and I promised myself that I would never leave her anywhere again.
I couldn’t imagine life without that doll.
Through the years, the doll became less important in my life.
I had other things to do, but the doll still sat on my bed during the day, and I still took it to bed at night.
I gave that doll a lot of love when I was little.
In fact, I loved the doll so much that she looks tattered and torn now.
There are parts of her face and hands that are almost worn away.
I had a lot of other toys when I was little, but none of them were ever so important as that doll.
I don’t play with toys anymore, but that doll is still in my room.
She sits in a special chair in the corner.
I’ll always have that doll.
No matter how worn out she is, I’ll always keep her and cherish her as a part of my early childhood.