I Must Have Learned This Somewhere

I loved an old doll made of bleachedwooden beads strung into a stick figure.When the string was pulled, the tautened limbsreached their full extent, and a human figure,stiff with rigor mortis, rose up.When the string was let go, the doll collapsedinto a heap more lifelike, though it missedits spinal chord of string. I spent hours tryingto prop it up to look more human withoutpulling the string, but it sat in my hands,bent, uncontrolled in a muscular fitor a spasm of fear. And so for myself,collapsed in a tangled necklace,anger painting my stiff wooden face.Yet now my life can hold me in its handsas long ago I coaxed the doll in my palmsto try to sit lifelike there. My mother's handsmust long ago have offered the same balmthough I took her for an operatorholding my string. How else could I storesuch an idea of comfort as Igave the doll, so material was its cry?