She sits on my couch	She sits on my couch, hands between her knees, swinging her legs.
	Last time, she remembered where the Russian dolls sat, nested within one another. She remembered where to find the Portuguese donkey and which cupboard held the cookies.
	This time, she remembers Papa's hands, clawing at her arm and squeezing too tight, not to hurt her but because he didn't remember how small six year-old children are.
	Next time, she'll remember sitting on my couch, hands between her knees, swinging her legs.
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