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When I was very young, my mother reverently gifted me with a tiny faded doll. This had been hers when she was a girl, and my grandmother's. Now it would be mine. Its name was Agu.

"She" is the closest I can come to a personal pronoun for the doll, though I have never thought of her as "he," "she," or "it," but simply "Agu."

Agu is about four inches tall and three inches wide. She has soft, rounded limbs and her entirety is covered with a wool-like beige fabric. The exception is where it arches in the shape of a hood to expose a face of smooth fabric. This face is painted on with bright pink dabs for cheeks and a tiny dab for a mouth. If one looks closer, they may notice soft brown eyebrows, eyelashes, and gentle blue eyes, almost wholly faded by time.

I used to call for Agu, who had a way of getting lost in the covers or under the bed. She meant very much to me because she seemed so delicate. I never thought of her as a baby - on the contrary, I always saw her as being quite old; ancient, wise, and nostalgic. She was succeeded by various toys throughout my childhood, but I never threw nor ignored her. Even now she rests on my bookshelf, comfortably viewing the world through her failing blue eyes.

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