I was ten when she arrived. Much too old <br />for dolls or Santa Claus. My Last Doll. <br />She was different, made in Belgium, <br />with eyes as brown as chocolate drops. <br />She had to have an elegant name. <br />Annabelle Marie Louise for the French connection, <br />Josett after a Maltese friend, <br />She was tall, tanned, we got on straight away. <br />She posed in the bedroom I made for her <br />under the well of the stairs. I’d be there too, <br />peaceful in this ideal space, <br /> a place for everything <br />everything in its place. <br />She smiled, open mouthed, <br />I read my books. <br />She smiled, smiled, smiled. <br />I almost envied her. <br />She had no sisters.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memory-chest-she-had-no-sisters/
