Amanda
A special memory of one morning with my dad, and my favorite doll.
I'm lying on the floor of our rec-room, watching cartoons. I'm about eight years old and this is pretty much all I do on a Saturday morning. I hear the front door slam, a familiar sound, and glance up only when I realize that my father is coming down the stairs of our split-level home. He peeks over the railing at me, and says, "Come on..." He is sweaty, and covered with grass clippings. His black curls have already begun...