Today especially I’ve been thinking about a girl. She’s thirteen, fourteen, fifteen or so, and lives in one of those muskeg blanketed villages in Alaska’s interior that’s only reachable by plane. It’s present day, she’s pretty, she’s Native. She found an old photo album, its pages falling apart, crinkling and crunching and disintegrating in her hands when she held it. The photographs were taken by her grandfather, who was stationed in Tokyo after WWII. He came back to the village after, bringing his wife (her grandmother) and his daughter (her mother) a paper sack full of kokeshi dolls. They had little caps of painted-on glossy black hair, and red dresses decorated with cherry blossoms.