Thirteen years ago I was an inpatient at a psychiatric ward for adolescents. I was suffering with anorexia and depression and, weighing little over five stone, was confined to a bed for five months of the nine that I spent there. During this time I received letters and gifts from friends, family and teachers from the Steiner school that I had just left. The other day I was, for some unfathomable reason, rooting through boxes of old stuff, when I came across two gifts that I received from my languages teacher while I was on bedrest. We had argued on regular occasions while I had been in school (our views on hunting differed) but she had still set time aside to craft two, beautiful handmade Waldorf dolls.
When I tugged pieces of lint out of their wool hair, and look down upon their tiny, just suggested facial features and soft bodies, I felt myself momentarily loosen up and lose some of the anger I had been gripping onto with every strand of my being. I let myself think about one day presenting them to my own children, and watching them adopt them as their own. I gave them names thirteen years ago, but I can’t, for the life of me, remember what they were. I’ve decided to leave then as they are for now, and give my future little ones the opportunity to choose what these two smiling sisters are called.