My arms are filled with dolls and games and teddy bears she's saved since they had slept beside her in her crib.

Her voice was teeny, small and sweet. She sang the nursery rhymes to her friends at tea. They'd sit around this table here and never speak a word despite outlandish outfits that she'd dressed them in. She'd pour the tea with such precision, such fair distribution so that no doll would be possibly offended.

My arms ache with holding all these toys and memories.