(memory Chest) She Had No Sisters Poem by Janice Windle

I was ten when she arrived. Much too old
for dolls or Santa Claus. My Last Doll.
She was different, made in Belgium,
with eyes as brown as chocolate drops.
She had to have an elegant name.
Annabelle Marie Louise for the French connection,
Josett after a Maltese friend,
She was tall, tanned, we got on straight away.
She posed in the bedroom I made for her
under the well of the stairs. I’d be there too,
peaceful in this ideal space,
a place for everything
everything in its place.
She smiled, open mouthed,
I read my books.
She smiled, smiled, smiled.
I almost envied her.
She had no sisters.