Your mother lied to you. That's the truth.
Said the clay doll to the straw doll.
Your mother isn't even an adult capable of bearing children, nor is mine. They aren't our mothers. My mother is long dead, some grasses that seeded years ago and have since returned to the dirt. Yours were diet to begin with. Or rather, flip that. Mine were dirt and yours were grass. Regardless, we're in this together. We aren't human, our 'mothers' are children, and they'll discard us as they grow.
It wasn't so much that I had been blind to the truth. It was just that I had seen the truth differently.
Replied the straw doll. My mother is who I'd chosen to join souls with. I love her and she loves me. Nothing lasts forever, I know this. If she discards me, it will be as if she died. Human children before me have dealt with the death of a parent. No need to make a fuss over "truth". Consider this: mothers come in many forms. Some love to chastise their children. Some push their children. Mine accepts me for who I am.
the time Fred went to the car wash and never came back, you remember that? He was my mother's father. Is that any better than what our children mothers will do to us?
The straw doll hopped off the shelf. The clay doll tried to also, but it shattered.
I guess the clay doll was more fragile. Sometimes those who preach strength are the weakest. Sometimes all you can be is squishable. For future friendships, I will seek the council of the plastic toys, who cannot point to materials as father, mother, but rather to makers. And the hand carved wooden toys have a complex relationship with Carver and tree.
For https://busy.org/freewrite/@mariannewest/the-weekend-freewrite-1-20-2018-part-3-the-dramatic-twist