Subjective Perspective

The point of one’s perspective may be blind,
(I mused) when spying gay-adorned displays,
For deep within the recess of my mind,
The mimeographed script again replayed.

We children, both, role-playing on that day
so long ago, he was the soldier boy,
And I, a mere rag doll, in tattered frays,
While others dressed as pretty, French doll-toys.

And white-beard judge at midnight would employ
A list of traits, against which we’d all vie,
Rag Doll knew she’d neither flirt nor cloy,
And when the prize announced, she’d just stand by.

Her prize instead was gift from heaven blest,
He chose her hand, she won his heart instead.


Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge: Variations on a Theme

This holiday display, reminded me of that day long ago, when practicing for a 4th grade Christmas play, we read our lines from the mimeographed script that Sister had prepared for us.

I was given the part of the “Rag Doll” (presumably because of my red hair) and he was the tall and handsome “Chauffeur”. We were inanimate dolls who came to life on Christmas Eve, at the stroke of midnight: waiting for Santa to arrive. Rag Doll knew she’d never win the beauty contest, standing next to all the pretty “French” dolls. Then he came to her rescue and beautifully uttered his line: “…if I were the judge you would!”, instantly winning her heart.

Last August, we celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary.


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