They had become her passion.
The figurines, the pictures, the treasures. They were all hers and they were all precious. The tubs of tea cups stacked behind the boxes of old comic books and Time magazines. Four china dolls dressed for tea and nine swimming noodles. Three bags of wool.
Mrs. Aja Benson loved her things. She didn't have a problem with it even though everyone she knew did. Not the Zip-lock baggies full of pencil stubs, nor the glittery boxes stuffed with buttons. It was all a significant part of her life. The digital photos of a past love life crammed in trash bags, the half-used bottles of perfume, the cards and stamps and little sugar packets. They were all important.
They were imbedded into her life. They were a part of her.
In the midst of it all, in the midst of the plastic flowers, the incomplete decks of cards, the rolls of bubble wrap and boxes of hardware, was childhood. In the middle of it all, framed by school papers, meaningless letters, spare electrical cords and bottle caps, was a doll house.
In that doll house was a doll.
The doll's name was Suzie, even though the box she came in said Barbie.
And Suzie could always get whatever she wanted.
And Suzie was always smiling.