Today you have a doll. You think
it’s real. You call it Jane.
You are in your room with Jane,
laughing and talking. I
come in and look at you, but I
don’t stay because my stomach
suddenly turns. I haven’t been
real for weeks (I thought that
would be a relief when it happened).
I have never seen you so happy.
Isn’t that odd?
In the hall the nurses tell me
everything you’ve said about Jane.
They think it’s sweet. They’re
glad you’re happy. You kept
trying to get out of bed before they brought you
Jane, trying to find a baby you
heard crying. They were afraid you’d
I should be glad you’re happy, too,
but instead I’m thinking,
“Why me? I am the daughter of
some alien creature from outer
space.” I can hear your voice
lifting and falling. I can
almost hear Jane answering.
You are telling her why she
has to be careful, why
she has to remember to hold your hand.
by Cher Bibler