My local flea market has an entire section devoted to second-hand religious paraphernalia. There are beaten-up hymn books, raggedy Bibles, and half-empty plastic bottles of holy water. Surely it is impossible to verify the authenticity of flea market holy water?
There are easily thirty different portraits of Jesus for sale, all of of them somewhat different in their interpretation. There's buff Jesus, skinny Jesus, sad Jesus, happy Jesus, and blonde, curly-headed Jesus who looks like Chad Kroeger, lead singer of Nickelback, back when he had long hair.
But directly across from the religious section, under the watchful eyes of thirty Jesuses, is a pile of discarded, mangled dolls with a mix of missing limbs, receding hairlines, and melted faces. All of them with intense, wide-eyed stares, as if they are startled.
Who would purchase these dolls, and for what purpose? Do people repair them? Fill their torsos with potting soil and turn them into planters? Melt them down to form one giant, new baby doll? There must be some audience for them, if the flea market owners keep collecting these poor, dejected souls and setting them out for sale.
I am starting to get sad, though, seeing these dolls just sitting there week after week. I think I might buy several and gift them to my family members. One arm-less doll with purple hair for Aunt Delilah. One white-haired doll with a mysterious crust around the eyeballs for little Stella. For Uncle Joe, a portrait of blonde Jesus, who may or may not look like Chad Kroeger.
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