Topsy

Topsy’s leg protruded through the coffee grounds and banana peels. I couldn’t believe it. Someone threw her in the garbage. I yanked on her leg and she flung herself from the trash into my arms. Bits of vegetable and paper clung to her little body. Her eyes sunk back into her plaster head. Her blond curls lay limp and colorless. How sad to see her once glorious self, old and torn.

I got her as a Christmas gift two years ago when I was three. Her face had glistened with robust good health. Her cloth body had been plump and round. Mama made a gingham dress that fit her perfectly. Little white shoes strapped over ruffled anklets on her hard rubber feet. Her blue eyes closed when I laid her down, long lashes rested on her rosy cheeks, and flew open when I picked her up. I asked everyone in the family what to name her and rejected all they suggested.

Finally in exasperation, Uncle John sighed “I don’t care what you name her. Call her topsy-turvy for all I care.”

            “I like it. Thanks Uncle John.”

            Now, her clothes had disappeared and one leg turned outward, cotton batting stuck out from a slit in her bedraggled insides. I climbed the stairs with Topsy in tow.

            “You threw Topsy out.” I glared at my mother.

            “You have so many pretty dolls. Topsy is so beat up,” she said.

            “I don’t care how beat up she is, she’s my favorite doll.”

            I wondered if Mama would throw me out if I got beat up. I’m not sure I ever really trusted Mama after that.