Window Shopping

There she is,
the doll of my dreams,
pink and cuddly,
the doll of my dreams.
Why are the best things
always behind glass?

My mother pulls me away
gently.
I take her hand,
knowing too well
her grown-up
worries and burdens --
food and fuel and school supplies.

Morning.
My birthday.
My mother
tears in her eyes
holding the doll,
no glass.

I can't move.
I stare
at my mother
her tears
the doll of my dreams
in her arms
No glass.