Who remembers the troll dolls from the olden days of the ’60s? We called them wishnik dolls and stroked their hair to make a wish. I was that girl with one in my desk, waiting for those wishes to come true.
She looks through the box on her desk. That’s where she keeps them. Her postcards. But only the pretty ones. Like this. This postcard. The one she’s looking for. A troll doll. That hair. Oh, oh, oh! How she loves it. Shooting up from its head like a fuchsia flame. Like her old troll doll. The one she used to have. Back then. Elementary school. The doll she kept in her purse. Slipping her hand inside during class. Stroking its hair. So, so silky. That troll doll. That hair. It always made her smile. “Dear Elaine,” she writes on this postcard. “Driving home from the grocery store. Holly sitting next to me. Strapped in her car seat. Such a good girl. My little Yorkie. Chewing on a dental bone. Blueberry. Her favorite flavor. But this sign. Tiny. Barely noticeable. On the side of the…
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