A Doll’s Grave

I stroked your soft hand for the last time, as I gingerly set you down in the dirt. It was the final goodbye. Seven amazing years had come down to this very moment. We had survived you losing an arm, me combing out a lot of your hair, nudity, scrapes, bruises, and a dastardly younger brother. The unchanging look in your soft hazel eyes nearly broke my heart. You were dressed for the other world, with the colorful leopard-print dress I'd made for you with fabric and ribbon, the thigh-high boots you adored, and a necklace I'd made with my own two hands out of golden pipe cleaner.

I felt the tears come, but I couldn't let your last vision of me be of me hurting. Not like this. I wanted you to remember the happier times of you and John Cena and your kids. I didn't want you to think of me or wonder if I was only letting you go because of some bullshit status quo that by thirteen, you should be done with dolls. Despite the ruthless undertaking of your family, we had been together through thick and thin, and the end was almost becoming too much.

I straightened the necklace one last time and placed a kiss on your forehead before letting the dirt cover up those bright hazel eyes, your brown hair that I had finally figured out how to braid, the boots, your dress, your pouty look. Every tiny scoop I scraped into the hole just made us further and further apart, though I knew that once you were finally covered, we would both find peace.