"Aww! This belonged to your brother. Do you want to see your brother?”
I never knew my “brother.” He was gone before I came into being, and yet was responsible for my existence.
We had entered the storage room with the intent of retrieving some coats for the coming winter. Instead, she had begun to shift through the dusted boxes out of a simple curiosity to what could be inside. I look at his face in the photograph. There is no color, but the lightness of his hair and the roundness of his face, the gentle smile while somehow appearing bored with the session gave me some idea of what he was like. He had passed away at only fourteen years old, at the same time as his father. I have yet to learn how or when, but all those around her have called it “senseless” without saying why. Grief, they say, weighs heavily in Diocetti. Our mother, as I call her, has assured me many times that I am not meant to replace him. I…wonder… sometimes.
Is it a strange thing for a doll to wonder?
The Genue XI is said to be the most advanced piece of artificial creation yet. Each now a true work of art, with full customization, and advertised as being able to age with the children they will accompany. A perfect playmate that will stay with the family for years to come. What would a grown woman have for such an extravagant toy? It is different from my cousins. They are each an older model, a Genue IV and IX respectively. They appear almost exactly alike. Practically twins, except that Dadalyn wears his age on his face. Mother says that, as the oldest, it isn't his fault. He simply does not have the emotional capability of the more recent releases. Cassius does not have such limitations. He is much more human in that way. Lithe, energetic, and friendly with only the occasional stutter. Aunt Maddison seems to have a fondness for them regardless, but she never had children of her own. They each still have their use. Dadalyn was made to assist in cleaning and cooking and the like. Cassius was made with greater movement and memory to serve as entertainment. They often had company come to visit. My mother and I included if we could ever find those coats. But what is my purpose?
Perhaps I am having a “hiccup” as I realize I have been holding the photograph without really looking at it. Staring as though these stray thoughts have caused my other senses to freeze. I look at my own mother again to see if she had noticed my inaction, but it appears she is having a similar problem. Her face appears sad and lost in deep contemplation as she holds a wooden bird in both hands. It must have held meanings I have yet to understand. Her light brown hair had been messily tied into a bun so we might work better, and her eyes still shine despite the pain within. She is quite young for a widow. I do not look anything like my brother. I am certain she designed me not to. Someday I intend to know who he was. To know if he would have been happy with me here, or if I would be here at all if he had stayed.
Kofi