The Mystery, by Maxine Taylor
There’s a mystery about toys. Every year the manufacturers of them produce something new. They furnish an adventure into imagination, a block for building knowledge or an instrument of discipline or love. Toys are cherished and abandoned, cared for and thrust aside. They all have magic because they linger for a time and then they disappear. There must be mountains made entirely of dollies and prams and baby bottles. Under the sod lay the matchbox racers and the plastic soldiers. I know I lost my marbles years ago.
I used to lie awake and discuss toys I wanted for Christmas with my brother. Would he get the new football and I yet another baby doll to dress and feed, to reinforce by role-play my future life? I wonder where they all are now. Did I pass them on to other children or do they reside at the lower depths of the land fill. I had some toys that must have gone to my sister but they’ve probably joined the ether also. But toys do leave their trace. They imprint them selves on the memory and have shaped our lives without word or deed. And when we buy them for our young ones we provide a legacy and perpetuate the mystery once again.