Pink Rambler

In that space of quiet in my heart she still speaks and this is what she had to say…

Pink Rambler

I. The Doll

She is an essence of a time when we believed we could do anything. No star was beyond our reach.

My mind told me how silly this was, yet my heart...

Carefully, gingerly, as if I could actually hurt her, as if she could really feel the pain.

I could feel the tears as I removed her from the mildewed box. I had thought, hoped really, that she would be safe there. The damage was astounding.

I was determined that I could preserve her somehow, if only saving that essence.

The spirit that was the spark embracing all of us, leapt through the tattered broken body.

For just a moment, I held her, remembering why I wanted desperately perhaps, to hold on to her. Logic shouted, "There's no room, you're cluttered enough."

Yet my heart sang...

From what she symbolized then, to what she has come to mean, lifetimes have grown. Time has moved from one season to the other.

Somehow we have managed to build our own separate bridges raising above and beyond our original foundations-past our boundaries.

We've come through many storms to witness the dawn of a new millennium. A morning when “Colored” girls won't be afraid or ashamed of having a doll that looks like them.

Through the shadows of yesterday, a voice of wisdom echoes forever calling to us, telling us it's all right.

II. A Thousand Times

Winter slipped slowly behind a curtain of color, free falling to the anxious earth. Dusk was quickly ushered out by Night-too eager to begin. Streets were strangled with shoppers too happy in their holiday hustle. Others hurried to hasten their return to home and hearth. That's where I was, lost somewhere in Saturdays' sojourn-to any place else.

A clear darkening sky called, yet I continued to drive past the struggle just ahead-her battle with death.

We've know her wishes for some time land chose to ignore them wanting to prolong her light that illuminated our paths for so long. Feeling, somehow, her journey home would plunge us into darkness. For now I chose not to think about that inevitable moment when we would have to say

good-bye after more than a thousand hellos. I merely focused beyond the glare of headlights, to my exit and my own immediate solitary journey home.

The coming winter blew cool breezes swirling the remaining lazy leaves singing softly, "Let it be, His will be done." The song took shape through the shadows, jumping away as my key jingled in the door. I came in hoping to embrace solitude yet Hope had her own ideas. Soon enough, evening winter's growing bitter winds would sing to me alone, "His will be done, let it be."

I followed His song to her. From her safety, I withdrew her slowly. A truly delicate creature. Bruised and battered, she no longer speaks for a forgotten era. Blind in one eye she has seen enough signs reading, "Whites Only." Racial injustice slipping quickly towards the back of the bus.

Once glorious hair unevenly chopped off covered now by a cap crocheted by caring fingers knotted with arthritis. Torn and tattered by years of neglect. Abused at the hands of a child too young to understand or perhaps understanding too much.

I had always meant to have her restored. There would be plenty of time-forever was to remain an illusion.

Winters wind blew suddenly, sending a silent shiver through my heart. I felt her hands, now clinging to life, slip into the shadows of my soul. I heard her whisper through the bitter winter winds.

The song, quickly embracing evening, settled into the quiet.

The morning rose.

The voice of a new beginning. Her hands released the fragile threads. The song echoed through the breaking dawn. "It is done."

She had led us across many troubled seas for more than a thousand times. This moment, we led her home.


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