My Floridian grandparents always had a thing for hitting up the area flea market circuit and sending me boxes full of elderly-approved trinkets. Each shipment contained a motley crew of socks, pencils and porcelain figures. While the tiny clowns were indeed terrifying, nothing spooked me more than an antique doll dressed in a peach lace gown; it looked just like me, down to the brown ringlet curls. I couldn’t sleep a wink with that thing staring down at me each night, so my parents had to banish it to the basement. I wonder what my gram would’ve said if she knew.
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