Bye, Sindy... or is it Hello?



I never knew what happened to my Sindy’s. One, I think. was given to the poor children of the neighbourhood (every year we used to fill boxes with old toys for the poor), Paul was badly bitten by our spanlel, my sisters must have drowned Patch in the old farm pond... I don't know. Thirty years later I still look for that easily-fulfilled happiness I shared with my first Sindy’s, I still look for the old versions of the dolls, I still almost cry when I find her again, laying on a dirty blanket at the flee market, her hands chewed, her hair frizzed. Because these dolls came from other little girls' laps, other houses where they were the only modem symbol of youth and freedom, other thirty/forty-something women who have forgotten that they once were those little girls.

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