Swiss Princess on a String

She hung there like a memory no one wanted to claim — half-fairy, half-forgotten, her dainty porcelain face frozen in permanent welcome. I found her at a yard sale two doors down from where I was living on Swiss Avenue. There she was: suspended from a cheap plastic clothes hanger, her satin skirts crumpled like last year’s promises, framed by a Japanese modesty screen with paper lotus blossoms blooming behind her like ghosts from a forgotten dream.

The sadness was already there. The longing. The mystery. It asked for nothing but to be seen.

There was something both delicate and tragic about her, the kind of sorrow that doesn’t scream — it just waits. Her limbs dangled from strings, too light to carry weight but too tangled to let her fall. Whoever tied those knots wasn’t careless. They were deliberate. Someone once loved her. Someone once looped ribbons in her hair and dreamed her into being.

She’s the kind of doll that little girls whisper secrets to. The kind that’s carried into backyards to sit in teacup thrones, made to rule kingdoms drawn in chalk and summer dust. But that was long ago. And somewhere between tea parties and teenage years, the spell broke. The chalk washed away. And the princess on a string was hung out to be sold for a dollar. Maybe less.

There’s a story in her, no doubt. One that feels part fairy tale, part exile. Maybe she once belonged to a girl with a poet’s heart and an overprotective mother. Maybe she lived in a world of quiet rules and floral wallpaper, where bedtime came too early and dreams always stayed just out of reach. Maybe she danced when no one was looking. Or maybe — just maybe — she was the kind of princess who longed to break free from strings altogether.

She has that look about her. Like she remembers everything but says nothing.

When I took the photograph, I didn’t try to style the shot. It didn’t need styling. The sadness was already there. The longing. The mystery. It asked for nothing but to be seen.

And I still wonder who she was. Who she belonged to. Who she waited for.

Maybe she’s still waiting.

What small childhood treasure still makes you smile today?

— Lawrence

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