Baby. Such a stupid name for a doll. Then again, every 3-year old calls everything the name with an “e” at the end. Doggy. Horsey. Birdie. Mommy. Daddy. What could a baby doll be named as? I probably asked when I got it. Such an expensive thing should be named and cherished. And while I did loved it so much, I never considered naming it Mary or Rose  or anything else reasonable. So Baby it was called.

I took her absolutely everywhere. Every night, I snuggled with her. I told her all my secrets. Complained to her about those little things in life that bothered me. Whispered to her my favorite books at night, when I was supposed to be sleeping. Chatted to her merrily with not a care in the world. And the exciting part was?

Baby was always there. When I spoke to my mom, she was usually on the phone. My story would end at the same time the receiver’s message ended. “What did you say?” She’d ask carelessly. And when I muttered,”never mind,” she’d lecture me on how rude it was to “be speaking while Mommy and Daddy are on the phone.” Baby never said a word. She always listened. And she was always there when I wanted her. She had lovely blue eyes that looked so peaceful. Not the creepy eyes of any regular doll. Her dress was plaid. She had frilly white socks.  But the best part was her sparkling gold hair.

When I was little, I chewed on my hair. Didn’t everyone? I don’t do it anymore. But back then, it was too much a problem for my mom. She told me of nasty bugs and lice that could damage my hair. Attempting to scare me into breaking my habits, she showed me them online. “Does Baby have them?” I asked her innocently. “Ye-no. What?” My mom sputtered.

I chewed Baby’s hair instead.

One night, we were at an airport. I can’t remember  what I saw but where we sat was near a window. One of those huge ones that you could look through to see planes taking off and landing at. And it stank-like sewage. we were near a trash can. The air was heavy with airport junk food and old leather seats it was awful. But we were stuck until the plane came so I took out Baby.

I fed her and let her sip out of plastic bottles. I rocked her back and forth while singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little star,” the only real song I knew. The next thing I knew, I was being pushed and shoved into the plane. I screamed at my mom. Poured tears until everything was blurry. My sister cried silently.

I am told that my dad cancelled his flight and took one back to that airport, just to look for that doll. The only one I cared for. He talked to attendants in worried tones. They shook their heads and turned away. Me and my sister were quiet, mourning Baby’s loss. My sister knew how much I loved Baby. She had a doll of her own, too.

Some people know what it feels to have people dead. People we care about stiff and cold, their sightless eyes staring up. But at least they had bodies to mourn over. I had nothing.

Only when I missed Baby did I realize just how much I loved her. How could a torn, crinkly toy be loved so much? Love is mysterious in more ways than one. And everyone is different.

When I was five, I wrote a letter to Baby. Because of course she wasn’t dead. Not really anyway. But who knows what position she was in? Perhaps she was being shipped to Africa for a child in need. Or perhaps she was found by another kid, one that was snotty and mean and ripped Baby apart. Or maybe, just maybe, she is under the ancient leather seat, waiting for a child who would never come.