Darren Stein: ‘The Doll Hospital’

The Doll Hospital

I took my daughter to the Doll Hospital
on Stoney Creek Road in Bexley
where an almost alive old man
repaired almost alive old dolls.
His shelves were replete with antique
porcelain and plastic nostalgia—
Kewpies, cabbage patches and gollywogs,
hand-stitched teddy bears and clowns,
faces so human, you could not tell the
difference, and those you would not turn
your back upon in fear that they might
stab you with a knife.
Behind the counter lay the parts of
his profession—disembodied heads
guillotined second-hand bodies,
arms and legs, hands and hair,
glass glazed eyes that showed no window
to the soul from every available race,
age or era.
When I asked if he had made any,
he said, “not since the sixth day”,
and that was a very long time ago.
Now they are all mass produced in
factory lots in China, a multitude of
replicas with no distinction or unique
identity, like people, a body of matter
much cheaper to replace then to repair.

Darren Stein