Her Divinity

Taylor Dinardo

In my basement where the vomit-colored carpet smelled of cat piss, I was the god of Barbie dolls. I meditated, surrounded with scattered toys, confetti. I ran my finger over the Saran hair and gently dressed each doll in velcro-bound clothing. Perfect, I thought. Each Barbie was perfect, divinely animated by my touch, sacred mediums through which my stories would be told. I picked one up in my hand and looked into her friendly, smoldering eyes. She was my favorite, I decided. From then on, only good things would happen to her. I would assign to her the token Ken doll as a boyfriend. I would dress her in my favorite clothes: the dark wash jeans with embroidered-looking pockets and the tiny red top. I wanted my favorite doll to be the most beautiful.

Around the age of five, I created a universe in my basement of which I was the controller. The noise upstairs was muted by distance and a shut door, and that stretch of floor downstairs I claimed as my own. If upstairs was still too loud, I’d slip on the headphones to my Discman. It was pink and lavender with three princesses on the front. Until middle school, I could have sworn I was one of them. Pink, plastic hours went by until my mother gently asked me to come upstairs for dinner.  I reached the top of the staircase, suddenly older, my universe left behind me like an unloved friend.