It’s cold tonight.

Nothing new there.

My nights are always cold, now.

I remember when they were warm.

Well, just barely.

I remember a little girl in a nightgown trimmed with lace, hair that had been taken out of its smooth, shiny ringlets for the night, plump, rosy cheeks and a smile.

Where did she go?

Why did she take her ringlets and leave me with dirty, greasy snarls? Why did she take the cheeks and leave me the hollows? Why did she take the smile and leave me only with the lips?

Why did she take the love, and leave me with my parents?

In the daytime the little girl wore pretty dresses. She took those, too.

Are you ashamed of me, little girl? Ashamed of the rags and the dirt? Is that why you left me?

Why did you take the innocence and leave me with fear, bruises, grim knowledge?

I remember a kitten you had. Did you take her, too? The only kittens I see now are starving, yowling creatures; their parents frozen or shot or trampled to death.

And the worst part is that I almost envy them.

They have fur to keep them warm where I have next to nothing. A rat is a whole meal for them, and only a snack for me. No one blames them for being their parents’ children, and there is always a chance for them to find a home.

I want that chance.

You had a home, little girl. I have a place where I sleep.

This blanket isn’t thick enough.

My sister is shivering.

She had a little girl once, too.

Sharing your toys, playing with you... Did she go with you?

Or is she somewhere else, with her own doll and kitten?

I wonder where my brother is.

He never had a little boy, did he? Just a screaming baby. He’s happy now, isn’t he?

Happier than me, at least.

You seem so very near to me, little girl. Do you want me to come away with you?

No, of course you don’t.

Why would you? Nobody wants to be with me now.

Just like nobody wanted to play with that other girl.

Do you remember her?

I remember. Now I’m sorry I never played with her. Now that I’m as unhappy as her.

She never got enough to eat, did she? Just like I’m not. She never had nice clothes, she was always cold, and always afraid.

Why were you so mean to her, little girl?

Is it because she didn’t have ringlets, rosy cheeks, pretty clothes?

She didn’t have a little girl.

But then she got a doll. Maybe the little girl came next.

Are you leaving, little girl? Leaving me all alone with the cold and the leaky roof?

It’s all right.

I’m used to it.

It took me a long time, though.

Where were you when I moved from warmth and shelter to this place?

Were you still me then?

Maybe.

But you’re not now.

I wish you were.

I need you, little girl.

Don’t leave me again.

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