When I was an infant, I got a rag doll. It was a very plain, little doll, and it wore a clown outfit and a clown’s hat. I used to take that doll to bed with me every night. I couldn’t go to bed without my doll. My mother used to pretend that the doll was talking to me. She would make the doll dance and sing songs. I would talk to the doll. My mother would answer for the doll, but I was a baby, and I thought that the doll was actually talking to me. That doll was my best friend. I took her everywhere. One time I took her to a store with me, and I left her on a shelf in the store. We were halfway home when I realized that I didn’t have my doll with me. I was very upset. My mother and I rushed back to the store. My doll was still there. I was so relieved. I hugged my doll, and I promised myself that I would never leave her anywhere again. I couldn’t imagine life without that doll. Through the years, the doll became less important in my life. I had other things to do, but the doll still sat on my bed during the day, and I still took it to bed at night. I gave that doll a lot of love when I was little. In fact, I loved that doll so much that she looks tattered and torn now. There are parts of her face and hands are almost worn away. I had a lot of other toys when I was little, but none of them were ever so important as that doll. I don’t play with toys anymore, but that doll is still in my room. She sits in a special chair in the corner. I’ll always have that doll. No matter how worn out she is, I’ll always keep her and cherish her as part of my early childhood.
