There is this box of old dolls, some of them Barbie's, tucked away on the top shelf of my closet. Little Sister wrote her name all over the top of the box. Then she gave the box to me for storage. The dolls are familiar. There's a bunch of hand made clothes in there, clothes that Grandma made out of bits and scraps of material. Now here's the kink in the story... Little Sister insists the dolls were hers. I insist they were mine. Some of the doll cloths match dresses Grandma made for me. I'm thinking now that maybe some of the dolls were mine and some hers. Hers would be the decapitated one, I'm sure of that.
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