A box of silly clothes, and my sister. Journaling reads:
"From the day you were born, Tiffy, you were mine. Sure, technically Mom gave birth to you, but that didn’t really matter. All I knew is that when you came home, I had the life-size baby doll I’d always wanted. On more than one occasion, I would bring my friends inside and we’d race up the stairs so I could show you off. The fact that Mom was nursing you at the time was apparently just a minor detail. We weren’t coming to see Mom – I wanted everyone to see YOU. My baby. My sister.
The day these pictures were taken, I was dressing you up in whatever I could find. You were perfectly happy to sit there and let me drape you in shawls and plop giant hats on your head. I held up the mirror so you could see how “bootiful” you were.
We still play dress-up, although we don’t call it that anymore. Both twenty-something and married, we outgrew dress-up a long time ago. But sometimes, when I’m putting eye shadow on you or we’re digging through your closet for the perfect shirt that won’t make Sissy look quite so dorky, I think that maybe, things haven’t changed all that much.