She’s just over one inch tall, with fading yellow hair of yarn that has become matted and tangled over the years. Her pink-and-white polka-dotted, painted dress has some scratches. But the red heart she holds exudes as much love as she had over three decades ago.
She sits on a ledge, among perfume bottles and creams, too tiny to be considered an actual doll, really no more than a knick-knack, a carved wooden tchotchke, something that others less sentimental than I would have long ago discarded. Or, at the very least, disregarded.
I don’t even recall the name of the woman who gave me the doll. (“Her name was Morah Chaya,” my mother answers my text, “didn’t realize how traumatic that was for you….”). Some teachers leave their imprint on their students through fiery inspiration, some through heartwarming lessons, and others, with a tiny, wooden figurine.

Kindergarten was over for the day and I skipped down the last set of steps to wait in the large front entry hall for my mother.
“We had a birthday party in school today!” I announced when I spotted her with my younger sister. “Look, I got a pekele!” I crouched down on the floor, oblivious to the kids rushing past. The name of the birthday girl was not as important as the favors she had handed out. I yanked the zipper of my knapsack open and reached inside. My fingers brushed some papers, but not the bag of goodies I was expecting. I opened the bag wider and peeked in.
“Mommy, my pekele is gone!” I gasped.
I looked around the entrance. It was empty. And there was no goody bag on the floor. But I knew I put it in my knapsack! Didn’t I?
Together, my mother and I retraced my steps back to the classroom.
The room was quiet and empty. Just ten minutes earlier, it had been a hive of activity; we had all gone charging out, jackets and backpacks flying. Now, it looked bigger and colder. I scanned the tables, peered under the chairs, and checked the play area, but there was no stray party bag. There were, however, rustling sounds coming from the oversized supply closet on the side of the classroom, the cupboard where Morah kept her papers and paints, yarn and beads, and shelves of shoe boxes that held changes of clothes in the event that someone spilled a whole cup of red paint all over your favorite jumper and you had to suffer the humiliation of changing into an old ugly dress when she should have been punished instead. Inside that closet, was Morah.
In preschool, I was a little loud, perhaps a touch bossy, the defender of whose turn it was to use the red paint. Facing Morah alone in the big, empty room, I was timid.
Fortunately, my mother never was. I was filled with both pride and embarrassment when my mother strolled into the closet and asked Morah for another pekele. I watched Morah shake her head and my heart fell. Morah explained that she had cleaned up the classroom after all the children left, and she hadn’t seen see any extra bags. There were none left. My shoulders drooped in defeat. My eyes started to prickle. It just wasn’t fair.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 606)