Grandma collected dolls. I remember spending most of my childhood gazinging longingly at them on their shelves.
Shelves. Rows upon rows. Porcelain beauty, never aging or dying. Eternal.
I didn't want to play with them, no, just look. They were too high for me to reach anyway. I would look at them for hours, especially in the awkward empty time between lunch and supper.
Grandma would make tomato soup, and Grandpa, ever present and helpful in the kitchen, would slice ham or turkey for sandwiches. We would sit around the table, antique oak and a little wobbly, and talk about life. How was school? Did you make any new friends? I'd answer and wonder how their coffee tasted. That was something I was never allowed to have. I'd ask constantly, always getting the same reply from Grandma; "Of course not! Coffee's not good for a child your age! It will surely stunt your growth." Grandpa would look at me with his all-knowing eyes. We shared our secrets; I'd tasted coffee a few times. Grandpa would always give me a few sips when we were in the garden, away from Grandma's prying eyes.
After lunch I would hurriedly help Grandma clear the table, while Grandpa smoked his pipe and read the paper. Grandma would excuse me from the kitchen, and I would disappear into the room filled with dolls.
Everything about the room was enchanting. Even the door, unlike any other in the house, captivated me. The door was lime green, a colour my grandmother hated, and chipped with age and scribbled upon with crayons by younger grandchildren. The doorknob was blue glass, and jiggled when turned. The other curious thing was that it had a peephole. If I begged, Grandpa would life me up to look through it...
Once inside, I'd take a moment to stand in the doorway, taking in every detail I could see. The only wall space not taken up by shelves of dolls held a single, small window, bedecked with salmon-pink curtains, and under the window, my Grandmother's sewing machine.
After a few minutes of gazing, I'd walk over to check on one particular doll. I called her Christine, only because I couldn't think of a better name for such a beautiful object. She wore a blue silk and plum velvet gown, with glittering gems sewn on it. Dripping diamond earrings were in her ears, and she had a strand of diamonds in her hair. A small silver silver bracelet hugged her slender right wrist. The expression on her face was one of pure beauty; somewhere between Vegas show-girl and Queen of Spain. Mama said that Grandma looked a lot like the doll when she was younger. I hoped she had, and that I would look like that too, when I grew up.
I turned twelve, my dreams of ever looking the doll, or like my grandmother, were shattered, when I found out that I had been adopted. While my "parents" were graced with silky black hair and green eyes, I curly brown brown hair and brown eyes. There were tall and tan, I was short and pale.
Grandma passed away this year, leaving the doll for me to care for. Visitors view it as a thing of beauty, something to be cherished, but I view as a constant reminder of what I will never become.