I run my finger over the dusty porcelain, the china doll’s face it’s unmistakably a work of art. Each detail is perfect, even the nose, which is extremely difficult to get right, but not impossible.
Her maple eyes hold both mystery and history. I find the doll in a heavy, oak chest behind a forgotten mirror, you never know what you could find in Grandma Jo’s attic. This doll is definately one of my favorite discoveries.I remember Grandma saying something about a doll her mother bought her once, yes, I remember now. She said it was for her twelth birthday, the doll’s name is Isabella, it’s coming back to me now. Grandma played with it all the time, she said she loved to brush her long, amber ringlets. That’s what she told me.
Isabella has another outfit in the chest, a long, emerald dress, velvet, I can tell by the feel of the fabric. I look down at the doll’s flawless face again, it seems to have taken a life of its own. The doll now portrays a sense of loneliness. I cradle her in my arms, she’s loved again.