Barbies line the bookcase in my mothers office. Wedding Barbie, Hawaii Barbie, Christmas Barbies 1987-99. All in mint condition in their original boxes.

For my fifth birthday, I got mom’s Barbie collection- her childhood play collection, not the collector collection. All my own to play with including Barbie’s Dream House and her perfectly pink car.

My brother would sneak into my room to strip each Barbie, leaving them strewn about the floor, their clothing disregarded nearby. After the cat would get to her, i’d collect Barbie’s arms, legs, and chunks of her head, wipe the cat saliva from her hair and line them up across my bookshelf. Something about throwing away the small bits of her seemed unfeeling.

On my 7th birthday mom tracked down Barbie’s rock band; just like the one she used to play with before someone mindlessly tossed it out. Barbie pounded on the drum set to emulate mom sat down at her own.

My Barbie collection grew tenfold by age eleven. A group of girls came to my house and quickly I ushered them up to my room, ready to impress with my now fully furnished Barbie Dream House. To my dismay, one girl asked

“Do you still play with barbies?”

They all giggled with one another.

I scrambled for an explanation, settled on
“Oh, i was just packing them up.”

Now Barbies are piled up on top of one another, shoved into plastic bins, left to rot in the attic.

In the toy isle, my mom stands- one hand holding a phone up to her ear, the oncologist on the other end- one hand caressing each boxed Barbie lining the shelf.

I imagine she is wondering where her Barbies have gone.