I found her at a second-hand shop. It was a shop I frequented back when my daughter was a baby. I remember seeing the Spanish guitarist on the shelf, turning it over to find the price (it wasn’t very expensive), and placing it back on the shelf. I don’t know why I hesitated, but I left the store with some other items.
It was after I had driven all the way home, I was seized with the thought I had to have it! I needed particularly to get it for my daughter (why I don’t know). I got back into the car. Was there time? Would the store be closed when I got there? They close early on Sunday. Would the Spanish guitarist still be there? (Suddenly she had become a rare and coveted item, every shopper eyeing her and calculating their purchase.)
Well, you know the ending. There she is. My daughter never played with her, of course. It’s not a thing you play with, and I don’t think my daughter ever even expressed the slenderest interest in the little figurine. I’ve drawn her lots of times. She represents my obsessions — though she has something to do with being a mother. She’s my childhood sought, not my daughter’s. And I heard her smooth, shiny, crystaline, glass music from afar.