I am packing up their things, preparing for remodeling and switching of rooms. Some things are easily thrown in a bag for donation, garbage... the random McDonalds' toys, plastic and tacky and resplendent in their blatant gare, Walmart brand button ups, in 1997's plaid, the errant pieces to a puzzle long since solved and tossed. But then I come upon the treasures, the pieces I never even began to fantasize about in 3rd grade, when the dreams of babies began to creep into my mind. The American girl Bitty Baby, rife with accessories, and outfits, lace and pastels. The Eric Carle slippers, shaped like one Hungry Caterpillar, the tiny porcelain teat set, meant for a budding princess, but wasted on a wild three year old boy with sticky, lustful fingers. I touch each of these things, remembering birthdays and Christmases past, when paper was frantically torn, and voices enthusiastically embraced each piece. I think of pigtails and Thomas the Train pjs, and bold lights on a tree cling