A pale green clamshell housed my girl Polly Pocket and my boy Polly Pocket, but they were
each so small that they really did live in my pockets most of the time. I would hold them
like worry dolls until their little faces wore off. Tiny toys are magical. You can play anything
with toys that tiny.

When I lost the boy Polly Pocket, whom Wikipedia tells me was named "Rick" and "liked pranks,"
I assembled Polly and a large regiment of British Royal Guards to find him in my room. We played
Search Party for a long time, an hour at least. Everyone marched over bookcases and inside pencil
sharpeners and stuff. I was exhausted by the time it occurred to me that the game might end without
the little faceless boy being found. I sat for several minutes, the Search at a standstill. Everyone
was well organized according to my game, playing and Searching perfectly, Polly and the guards seems
too tiny to thwart any plans. It was the first time I felt the strength of loss and the limits of my will.
I lost Polly a few months later. I think I still have the minty clamshell.