I have a Sasha doll. Sasha was not like my other animals and dolls. She wasn't my heart, the way Bear Bear was (and is). She wasn't Daisy who was my every day baby, solid and unflappable. She was older, more mature. She had long lush hair, beautiful brown skin, an enigmatic smile. She went to all the tea parties and study sessions. She changed her clothes, just like the other dolls, but she did so with a certain calm and elegance. I loved her, and I was a bit in awe of her.

For the last thirty years, Sasha has been living in her special cylindrical container on the top of the closet in my mother's house. I took her out occasionally and realized her limbs are now very delicate. It just never seemed the right time to introduce her to my kids.

Then a few weeks ago, my mom found the bag of clothes Mrs. Richardson made for Sasha--the nightgown, the every day dress, and the green velvet party dress with red embroidered flowers that matched the dress she also made for me. So, I brought Sasha and the clothes home.

Rose has pretty much stopped playing with dolls, but Sasha revitalized this pleasure. Rose has been trying on her outfits, introducing her to the rest of the dolls, even having Sasha sleep in her bed. When Rose said, "I think Sasha is still a little uncertain of me," I knew she understood how to respect and love Sasha the way that I do.