Through the wintry nights, hugged by the starlit black, my doll and I had the most amazing of dreams.
My doll had the best of ideas out there in the wild garden. We would talk, her and I. As I grew up I could tell that those around me had lost that abiltiy, that their dolls had become silent. But not me. I can still talk with them, hear what they have to say. Maybe my dolls are my angel voices, maybe it is they who love to play so much, play and guide.
The doll was her companion, her playmate, her friend and confidant. For that is the power if the imagination to banish lonely feelings and replace them with happiness and creativity.
When all was difficult, when it appeared that everyone else was lost in some grief or distracting thing, my doll always knew just what to say. Dolls are that way, such clever counsellors.