A small girl, five years old, plays with her beloved dolls in a dollhouse built for her birthday. As she begins weaving an intricate story for her dolls, spatters of rain tap on the windowpane. She looks up for just a fraction of a second, before returning to her own safe, perfect world. The dolls' stories are unfolding. Nancy is jealous of Annabelle's new mattress, but she'll never admit it. A mysterious newcomer, Chelsea, seems to be plotting against Caroline, who made fun of Chelsea's corsage on her first day. Countless other tales followed these before the little girl put each doll carefully into its bed. Their chipped paint and tattered clothing reflected all the love the girl had given to her dolls. She kissed them all goodnight and tucked them in.

Her mother has been watching her in the doorway. As the child's imagination whirs, so does her mother's. She begins to think about what kind of person her daughter will become. Different scenarios pop into her mind, some comical, others more serious. Maybe she will be an employee in a renaissance fair. Or perhaps a lieutenant aboard the S.S. Congo headed for the remote islands off Africa's coast. I'm sure that she never imagined what would really happen. A few months later, headaches and fatigue became a part of daily life for my mother. I grew up too fast, as she always said, in the next couple years.

I stand at the doorway, looking at my mother as she lies in bed. She glances up and beckons me to her side. She hands me a snap shot of myself playing with the dolls. It seems to have been taken in past life. "Remember," she said. As I start to tear up, I look at the window. It is still raining. "I will never forget," I promised.