The Longing:

There she sat, staring. Her eyes piercing the cold glass of the window, thick with expectation: waiting to see a posh, sleek Mercedes pull into the driveway. She waited eagerly that dreary, rainy night. She waited for the car. The one that papa drove.

Her tiny frail hand held tightly to the tattered doll. The rugged doll, one eye missing from too tight a grip of friendship. The frayed doll with a tear on its delicate French lace. And crayon markings adorning its face – a manifest of too long a spell of love. Her six year tattered, rugged, frayed nanny. The doll she liked best. The one that mama bought.

And tonight, like every other night she hugged her doll and prayed. She whispered quietly for her parents to pull up in the Mercedes. The one that papa drove. She uttered in undertones for her parents to come, tuck her safely in bed with her doll. The one that mama bought.

And tonight, just like every other night she took herself to bed. Wishing dad was there to read her that bed time story, and from mom, that goodnight kiss. Wishing she could at least dream of her parents getting home safely in the Mercedes. The one that papa bought. And she smiled – that sweet, sad smile – crept into bed, and cuddled her porcelain doll. The one that mama bought.