My grandmother, Clarice Ratcliff, and her sisters, Mary and Florence, 1895

1970: I pack a box of the few remaining (and most beloved) dolls, carefully laying them out in their best clothes: gingham dresses hand sewn by my mother, the blue sweater from France, the red chenille robe made by my mother's grandmother. I wrap the box in blankets, then plastic and carry it to the attic to outlast the dry winters and damp summers of New England. Mummified, but remembered. Perhaps even set aside for someone. Unlikely.

1995: I take Brianna up the attic ladder to show her "things that were Mommy's when she was little." We bring the box downstairs and make the introductions. She gets their names wrong and I correct her. I want her to call them by their names, my names.
In their weathered bodies they retain the tangible memories of years of holding and kissing. The taped arm, the broken foot, balding scalp -- visible reminders of play, of my time of daydreaming -- the thing that we knew how to do.

J. Roche