There's a child's doll in the yard across the street. I've looked over, on more than one ocassion, the last few days. It's raining today and still noone has remembered to go out and bring her back inside.
Why is it that seemingly insignificant things like this can tug at us so? Why do they create in us such pondering, as if the asnwer to a secret might be hidden there, in a doll laying on the grass in the rain?
© Rachelle
