Holly E. Price

Long ago, when I was a young girl, my mother made me a doll. Not a fancy porcelain doll, but one made from socks.

She spent hours sewing arms and legs, embroidering the face, and setting in buttons for eyes. I was mystified as I watched this doll come to life from the simple socks out of my father’s drawer.

When it came time for the hair, I watched my mother roll yarn around long knitting needles, and stood horrified as she popped them into the oven. Soon enough, my doll had a head full of curls that shook about as I rocked her.

For clothes, Mom used scraps of holly fabric, left over from my new Christmas dress.

Once that doll was ready to go, I couldn't be separated from it. I loved it, and my mother had spent so much time making it - just for me.

Now as I hit my teens, that doll found its way into the back of my closet, only to return in a box of whatnots my mom brought with her for my little girl.