Evidently, when she was very small, my sister Cheryl came into my room – the bedroom I shared with my older sister, Brenda – and got into my things. I’ve been told that one of the things that was stolen, broken or destroyed (I can’t remember which) was a souvenir American Indian doll. I don’t remember the doll or the incident. I was probably pretty dramatic about it at the time. Maybe even mean. Most likely tearful. Though I have no memory of it, my sister Cheryl never forgot it. As an adult, she gave me another doll, to replace the first little victim of her trespass.
Because of Cheryl’s long memory and as a symbol of her thoughtfulness, the doll is precious to me. Beyond that, it makes a striking subject for a drawing. The leather outfit with beads and fringe offer interesting details. The smooth brown plastic skin contrasts nicely with the course black hair. The dark eyes never close. Shadows settle the object in space; no other grounding is necessary.
If I were a better writer, or perhaps just better rested, i could bring this little story full circle, back to Cheryl. I can’t think how, but wouldn’t it be good if I could? All I have is the drawing of the little Indian doll, and the little story behind it.