She's there. Just past Annie, sitting on the rock and washed out in the dappled sunlight.
Closer still, and she comes into focus.
She's posing for the moment as a strange Andromeda. Too sweet to appeal to a sea monster, instead she appeals to my baby.
Once, this was my doll. After years spent dormant in a basement box, she has once again burst onto the scene as a cherished companion. By some strange lapse of my memory I don't remember what I called her when I was small, but for this generation her name is Miss Pinkie.
A friend of mine saw Miss Pinkie, and was overtaken by a startled, faraway look. She smiled with bright eyes and exclaimed "I had a doll like that! I remember having one of her!" It's funny how some memories from childhood are misty and soft, while others snap into focus in a split second. She couldn't remember her doll's name, either, and agreed Miss Pinkie was fitting.
Sometime, years ago, Miss Pinkie's dress was torn. Probably caught on a kitten's claw or a thistle burr, it's frayed but is holding steady.
Beep went through a phase when she liked to bite Miss Pinkie's hat ruffle and pull on it with her teeth. So now, part of her little Betsy Ross-style hat is missing. It doesn't seem to bother either of them, though.
They hang out all the time. Beep doesn't mind the frayed hat ruffle, Miss Pinkie isn't bothered by the baby's mullet.
When Beep is a little older, she'll be able to wear a sweet little pair of pink overalls with a miniature Miss Pinkie embroidered on the front. My mom made them for me to match my favorite little pink friend. I can't show them to you now, frankly, because they're in Beep's darkened room, and she is sleeping.
She's in her crib, snuggled under her blanket, with an arm thrown over Miss Pinkie.