by Denise Heebink
My mother was afraid to fly. So, when my parents came to visit me, they drove their van from rural, western Wisconsin to New York City. Each time they brought boxes of stuff. Sometimes the loot came in a chicken box. These boxes were great—waxed corrugated cardboard with tidy lids and measuring about 30 x 18 inches. They once had undressed chickens as inhabitants. We treated them with reverence. My siblings used them too for their moves out of the small town.
My parents ran their grocery store in a Mississippi River town on the eastern side of that wide water. Undressed chickens were delivered to Dad’s butcher counter in boxes. Once the chickens were readied for sale, the boxes remained. In this world, nothing was wasted. Material objects mattered. These boxes presented an opportunity—a chance for ingenuity. We did not worry about Salmonella in those times. The boxes would be washed out with soap and water, dried in the sun, folded up, and set aside. Who knew what their future might hold.
With excitement and dread, I opened the boxes from the Motherland. I had special affection for these revered chicken boxes. In one of them, I found Tiny Tears, my childhood doll. My parents had brought her back to me. I had loved her deeply. Eventually, she was replaced by the original Barbie in her black-and-white striped, sheath swimsuit, but that is another doll for another day.
Tiny Tears had curly, auburn hair and her body was baby beautiful and chubby. Her blue eyes and spiky lashes were so sweet to behold. We were inseparable. I guess she had cried tears at some point, since there were little holes at her epicanthal folds. Sometimes I cradled her in my arms and others I dragged her about by her arm.
Repetitive actions have consequences. One day Tiny Tears’ right arm tore away from her body. I was devastated. I held the amputated limb in my hand and saw her dismembered body on the grass and sobbed. I think I was five or six and went to bed tormented with guilt and sadness.
The next day I woke up heavy-hearted and found Tiny Tears wrapped in her blanket on the chair next to my bed. I opened the flannel and found her fully dressed. The fleshy, rubbery skin of her proximal arm had been sutured back on to her body. Thick, white stitches each separated by a quarter inch and individually knotted reunited arm with body. My beloved Tiny Tears had been reassembled. I cried.
Now I imagine that my father had used the big darning needle to sew her arm back on. My mother kept it in her recipe box for closing the cavity of the Thanksgiving turkey each year. We were admonished to put it back if we ever repurposed it.
Now again, I rub my fingers over those coarse and tender stitches. Nothing was ever wasted, everything could be used for something else, and all just might be reunited.
Call it love.
Denise is a semi-retired psychiatrist in New York City who seeks a voice to describe a life of abundance.