Cascading around the rocks that were her shoulders.
A flow of copious curls.
Not knowing the work I’d undo,
All with a single stroke.
The untouchables remained so.
She had set them just right.
The way she set my clothes out each night.
Plain, but brand new.
Lunchbox notes read “I love you,”
And the second-hand jeans around her hips
The years worn on her shoes--"Notes" undetected by a child’s eye.
A room full of plastic perfection.
Dolls with skirts hemmed with lace,
And long, threads of golden curls unbrushed.
Her reality allowed for the make-believe life I knew.