I think my first memory is sitting on my bed with my mother, who held my stuffed animal lamb, and i pulled the tail, releasing a quiet lullaby from the belly of the lamb. it was a soft toy i could cradle in my young hands, and i felt a sort of power in letting the music out of her. i can’t remember her name. but when i was young, probably up until middle school, i collected so many stuffed animals like her. collected perhaps isn’t the right word. i adopted them into my family. they cuddled under the covers with me, occasionally falling off the bed when things got crowded, immediately snatched up by me with a kiss and apology, as soon as i noticed. each had a name; a life of story of their own; hobbies; things they loved. when i was in elementary school i fantasized myself a world of fairies and angels. i created tiny beds of woodchips and flower petals and left out acorn caps of honey for my fairies. and i spoke to my angels. from a young age, i lived in this world of my own, this world i created of magic and fantasy. but back then, it was nothing but real. sometimes i wish i could feel that again.