Shirt Doll

One item that is very important in my life is the doll that my Grandma Sorensen made for me out of my grandpa’s old button-up shirt. “I think you’re old enough for this now,” she said to me on my thirteenth birthday. She made one for all of her granddaughters when she knew they were at an age where they would not play with it and ruin it. Because my grandpa has not been with us since I was two-years-old, this meant a lot to me to have something to remember him by.

My doll’s body is made of white cloth, stuffed to a plump, and it is wearing a dress out of my grandpa’s shirt. The white material of his shirt has dark pinstripes aligning in a vertical fashion, which adds a sense of elegance to the doll. The bottom of the dress is long and covers her white legs and feet. Around the edge of bottom, it is lined with white lace. She has no face, for her head is, too, made of the white material. A bonnet made of the same shirt material covered the top of the doll’s head; it looks like a old-fashioned bonnet like they would have worn in the olden-days.

This doll is my connection to not only my grandpa, but also my grandma. The material on the doll makes me feel closer to my grandpa, knowing that I have something that once belonged to him. The doll itself resembles my grandma’s notorious sewing ability and consistency in always thinking of others. Because she is no longer able to sew, it brings tears to my at the thought of her being incapable of creating such magnificent masterpieces such as that shirt doll.

My Object

It started out as an “in case of an emergency” type of possession. I was mainly to use it if I needed anything on my way to or from school, which was a fifteen-mile drive. My sixteenth birthday hadn’t come yet, and that’s when I was supposed to get it, but since I drove to school when I was fourteen, I was an exception. My cell phone has been with me through thick and thin, and it is very important to me.

Its age is starting to show. Come January, it will have been two years since my dad brought it home in a square box with a picture of my new Motorola Razr on the side. Its dark grey appearance cannot hide any of its scratches from the countless times I have dropped it. The scratches show up as black and silver outlines emphasizing the edges of my phone. When one looks at the front screen, the first thing brought to attention is the cracked screen; I guess that’s what I get for accidently stepping on it. No matter what it looks like, I am still thankful that is has been faithful to me over the past nearly two years.

My phone reveals a key to my world. When I was younger, it was mainly my lifeline in times of need, but now, it is my tool to keep in touch with friends and family. Now that I am older, it helps me communicate with loved ones who live far away and even nearby. Without my phone, I would be lost.

As the two-year mark approaches, I wonder if my phone will make it much longer. I could get a new phone, but I know that parting with this gray, beat up Razr will be more difficult than I anticipate.