When I was first able to walk, I fell into a doll. I named
her (—) until my grandmother hit that name out of my
mouth. We wore identical cotton frocks: red with black
camellias, a black ribbon tied at the neck. Lace at every
opening, stiff, ugly as bark. I fed her tinsel along with the
yellow cat. With the screen door open, the animals started
to come inside. I named her Christine because I couldn’t
imagine another word. I stared at the pink wall next to my
bed with my hands over my ears. The wall receded. The
pink became liquid. Everyone’s face wore a frown that day,
and someone was put in the fireplace. My father laughed
and laughed when a women’s hair caught fire. But that
was another party.