I don't remember how long she worked on that doll. It seemed as though it was forever, but it could only have been a couple of months. She started when we lost him. My brother.

All the while, she worked at it and never spoke a word. Others worried about her silence. I wanted to ease their minds, but what could a child possibly say? They fussed over us, and so many apologies came that I lost count. I got tired of those quickly. The false condolences with the underlying relief that it had not been their husband, brother or child who'd been lost.

She finished the doll in late spring. It was sitting on his bed when I woke one morning. A testament to his last day... It surprised me. Not just because of what it provoked in my mother, but because she had actually finished it. It had taken so long, that a part of me had given up on the return of her attentions, and the end to the dolls'.

She spoke after that. Spoke as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing had ever happened. She'd poured all her grief into that little doll, that sat on my brother's untouched bed. Others were relieved, but I grew angry and resentful. It had taken him away. The doll had taken my brother out of her heart. I couldn't understand how she could just forget.

I promised, the night I buried my mother's doll, I promised I'd never forget him, and I haven't to this day. Sometimes, I wonder what became of that doll, with it's wobbly legs and little fishing spear, but more often than not, I leave that memory be and focus on more pleasant things.