Santa brought her to my second Christmas.
She has always been part of my life, so my earliest memory is about her.
No I don't actually remember that Christmas morning, but I do remember an afternoon maybe a year and a half later.
I carried Dahlia everywhere I went -- usually by her hair, creating a lovely cave woman style 'do for her. But I digress.
It must have been either late afternoon or it was raining, because in my memory the room is muted.
My mother sits on the big chair with her sewing supplies on the table next to her. I am standing at her knee, while Dahlia lies naked in her lap. My mother explains that Dahlia needs a little plumping up and we are going to do surgery on her to help her out. My mother is the doctor and I will be the nurse.
She assures me Dahlia is fine and will wake-up feeling much better.
My mother carefully pulls stitches from Dahlia's back and begins to insert cotton balls. When we have agreed that Dahlia looks much better, mother stitches her up with tiny stitches. She turns Dahlia over softly patting her on the belly, so I can see her face. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is still pursed in the sweet smile she has. All is well.
That's all I remember. I assume we dressed her back in her pink gingham romper, and she and I went on our merry way.
She still hangs out with me everyday. Sitting at the end of my bed. She had a make-over courtesy of professionals a few years back, and new hair and clothes.
She is all that was good in my childhood.
