The Last Time I Played with Dolls Leah Garrity What spurred me to package my toys away? Entomb them in plastic bins shoved beneath my bed into a labyrinth of cobwebs, tangled with orphaned hobbies. Sold off piece meal at a yard sale, spread out on a blanket like a shroud. The shadow of sadness lingering in the periphery of mind as the players of my imaginings were clutched in sticky hands of other children to star in unfamiliar narratives. Forlorn that there was no final ceremonious brushing of my Barbie’s silk-spun hair, no last joy ride in her crimson convertible. Instead this slow-creeping disinterest, a secret roommate unpacking itself within the confines of my dollhouse. My distracted fingers loosening their grasp, to brandish new markers of age. Like drifting off to sleep, I never know when I cease fighting my exhaustion and finally lean into my pillow, sinking into slumber. I only awake the next morning changed.
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