Porcelain

There’s an old house I used to like taking photographs of many years back. An elderly woman lived there by herself and she used to let me in so I could take photographs of her rooms, each more beautiful than the last. I loved this old woman and her home to death.

In the powder room, she had a pretty little porcelain doll, propped up against the mirror of a dresser. The paleness of its skin stood out against the rather somber décor. By far the most perfect doll I had ever laid eyes on. I remember once, I put my camera down to pick it up, it was a lot heavier than I expected and covered in fine cracks. It looked as though it had shattered several times and had been meticulously pieced back together, not at all noticeable at first glance. I thought it was a real pity that something so perfect had become so decrepit. Before leaving that day, I asked my host about the doll:

“I’ve had that doll my whole life. Spent half of it trying to piece her back together the best I could. Fragile thing she is. We all need people to piece us back together sometimes you know. It’s funny you mention her. I may not be made of porcelain, but I have just as many cracks as she, they’re simply less visible. Every time she would brake, I would take a marker and write a word that would best represent the heartache I was going through at the time on the piece of her that broke off, then glue it back. Every time I added a new word, I couldn’t help but look at all the old ones. She gradually got heavier, carrying all my burdens underneath her cracked skin. I felt she was the best place to keep all my pains, because she is beautiful, therefore when I look at her, I smile. It is only when she breaks that all the pains surface. Now that I am old, I feel the worst is behind me and I try to be as careful with her as I can. If she breaks one more time, I don’t think I will have what it takes to save her.”