I love to take writing courses and learn new ways of expressing myself. Recently I took a course on Tiny Tales and Micro Memoir. The general idea is to get a story out in as few words as necessary to convey the gist of what you are trying to say. It is both challenging and fun at the same time.
The following is an assignment to describe the meaning of an object in less than 400 words. This one is 399 words
The Worrier
A few years ago, you brought her back from a trip to Florida. You handed her to me and said “She is a worry doll, I thought she was perfect for you as you have always worried about everything. I really don’t know where you get that from.”
Just breathe.
I graciously accepted the gift. She is cute, this tiny little doll made of wire, wool and an array of other colorful miniature textiles. Her face is simple, two black threads for eyes and one small red one for her mouth. Her hat is green. Her shirt is red. Her skirt is made of multiple-colored beads. I think her clothing incorporates all the shades of a rainbow, in a mere three inches tall.
Tradition and legend say that a young princess received a special gift from the sun god which would allow her to solve any problem she could worry about. I most certainly am not, nor was I ever, a young princess. She never treated me like a princess. Nothing special for me. I needed to be sensible and ready to help out with any crisis she might be in, day or night. No matter my age or stage in life, I was always dutifully on alert for her cries.
Tradition and modern times say these dolls are given to the anxious and sorrowful children. Now that is more like me. But I am well past the point of believing that telling my doll my sorrows and fears and the next morning they are magically taken away, is even remotely possible. She needs me to be sorrowful, for she had no capacity to face her own. I never seemed to get it right. I was never able to help her feel better.
Modern day child psychiatry uses her as a troubleshooter between child and adult. The time for that has long ago passed, just as she has.
Today, I wonder why she gave her to me when she did? Childhood was decades ago. And if she believed what she said that I have “always” worried, why wait to give her to me after I have endured so many years of worry?
Tonight, I might take a luxurious bath and put on a new nightgown. I’ll whisper my worries to her and just maybe in the morning they might finally be gone.
For now, I doubt it.
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