 Chucky, this is your mommy. This was her trowel. It's a little shovel from gardening. All those flowers, she planted those. She used to love to come out here and play with you. It's all right, Chucky. Don't be scared. This is her diary. She started keeping it when she was in the hospital. The last thing she wrote in it was a poem for you. My sweet little Chucky, though I must leave you behind me, this poem will tell you where you always can find me. When a gentle woman blows, that's my hand on your face. And when the tree gives you shade, that's my sheltering embrace. When the sun gives you freckles, that's meticulous, my boy. When the rain, what's your hair? Those are my tears of joy. When the long grass enfolds you, that's me holding you tight. When the whippery wind sings, that's me whispering night. Daddy shed and stole my trike. I could have sworn I saw Chucky let go of the balloon. Nope, Angelica did. You just weren't paying attention. Oh, my Angelica, you're the one whose doll is floating up by Mars somewhere. I feel sorry for you because I only had to lose Cynthia once.