For my eighth birthday,
my mom gave me a Miss Curity Nurse Doll.

With her a starched white uniform and cap, and
her short hair, the eighteen-inch doll exuded
professionalism.

I estimated she was old,
around thirty or forty human years.

To my mother’s dismay, I wouldn’t take a break
from my books and crayons to play with the doll.

“Don’t you like her?” she asked while holding her
little nurse doll hands.

How could I tell her that I didn’t know what to
do with a nurse doll?

Undressing her seemed highly inappropriate.

Pretending she could heal me was pointless.

Unlike my mother, who was a devout hypochondriac,
I felt invulnerable.

I leaned Miss Curity against the wall where she
stood erect, propped up by an attached metal rod
down her backside.

And there, she gathered dust.

Along with Mom’s previous gifts: a toy ironing
board and iron, and an unused plastic dollhouse.