My dearest Cynthia:

I’ve been living, if you can call it that, in this dusty old attic for simply ages. My arms and legs are in their cases, but the rest of me lies here in nothing but layers and layers of dust, peepers plastered on the plaster walls.

Two guys came knocking around yesterday – a chrome-dome and a dreamboat. Tall-dark-and-handsome picked me up and dusted me off. Ring a ding ding ... I almost shattered! His name is Robert.

He reminds me of Mr. Gaba. Sculptor’s hands, and those hungry promethean eyes - going to make something of himself, and it might make something out of us too.

Robert knew all about us. He said Mr. Gaba was long dead, you were broken and missing, that all the Gaba Girls were missing. It’s 2022 – there are millions of mannequins and even robots. I’m almost 90. He says I’m the only one left, but that doesn’t jive. I can hear you.

We were goddesses in bloom. If Robert can waltz me out of here, he’s going to put me in a museum! Then everyone will scour every last inch of their storerooms and backrooms. We’ll find you – piece of cake. They’ll dress us up, put us in a window. Everyone and their sister will come around again to bask in our glamour.

We will blossom again.

You’ll see. We will.

Forever a Gaba Girl,
Rita