When I was a little girl I would beg my mother to recite a poem about a little orphan girl who wanders the streets on a cold winter night when she sees a beautiful doll in the window of a store.  She goes inside, while admiring the doll the salesman yells at her and lets her know the price of the doll (and in a mean tone assures her that she will never be able to buy it).  Back outside in the streets a man passes by and out of pity gives her money for food and shelter to make it through the night.  It happens to be the same amount as the cost of the doll.  Instead of buying food she buys the doll.  The next day it comes out in the news that the body of a little girl was found dead holding a doll during a cold winter night. As morbid as it sounds the poem was incredible and I would never tire from hearing it.  It became a tradition.  There were many times as a teenager that my mother would just start saying it in the middle of dinner just to break the stress between us. It was one of those few things that I looked forward to because it brought my mother onto a stage.  She lit up every time she recited it.As an adult I would ask her on special occasions for the recital, especially during Christmas time.  It wasn’t so much the Spanish poem, or the eloquent language, but the way she dramatized it.  It would always bring me to tears.  The last time I heard the poem was four years ago, a month before she died.  Two days ago I came across the poem on the Internet.  I was elated, surprised and once again brought to tears.  I had always wondered who wrote it and if, indeed, she didn’t make it up.  My mother had a flair for the arts.  Things were often exaggerated, and the way she narrated that poem (when she had memorized it in elementary school) brought her acting abilities to light.  Even at 83 years old she could still remember every single word.Traditions bring us comfort.  They are part of childhood and familiarity that warm every part of our memories.  They give us a sense of belonging and grounding.  I miss my mother reciting this poem to me.  It’s no mistake it came up in my search while looking up another Spanish poem.  I had no idea that the name of this poem was actually “The Doll” in Spanish.  Now that I have it I hope to be able to memorize it and pass it on to my kids, and one day my grandkids.  Below is the actual poem if you can read Spanish (I searched to see if anyone had translated it but couldn't find it):La Muñeca (by Vital Aza)En una noche de inviernoUna niña pordioseraCon los pies casi desnudosY las manecitas yertas,Cubriendo a modo de mantoCon su falda la cabeza,Y sin temor a la lluviaQue cada vez más arrecia,Contempla extasiada y tristeEl interior de una tienda,Que por su gusto en juguetesEs de todas la primera.¿Qué haces ahí? Le pregunta con voz desabrida y seca un dependiente,empujando a la niña hacia la acera,déjeme usted, es que estaba mirando esa muñeca.Ah, ya, retírate pronto Y deja libre la puerta.¿Dígame usted... ¿cuesta mucho?¿Quiéres marcharte chicuela?Será muy cara, ¿verdad?¡Lo que es que si yo pudiera! Los demonios con la chicaPues no puede comprarla ella.¡lárgate a pedir limosna!La muñeca que te gusta cuesta un duro, conque fuera!Marchóse la pobrecitaOcultando su tristeza.En vano pide limosna,Ninguno escucha sus quejasY desfallecida y triste,Cruza calles y plazuelasRecordando en su amarguraLa tentadora muñeca.Caballero, una limosnaA esta pobrecita huérfana,¡Quítate que voy de prisa!¡por Dios, señor, aunque sea un céntimo tengo hambre...¡Pobre niña! ¡Me das pena! ¡Toma!pero señor, si es un duro!no le hace, te lo doy para que tengasesta noche buena cama y buena cena!deje usted que le bese la mano!quita chicuela,un duro, estoy contenta, ¡No Será falso! ¿verdad?¿Cómo muchacha, tú piensas?No señor, dispense usted!Pero, vamos, la sorpresa...¡Si me vuelvo loca de alegría!Que dios le premie en el mundoY le dé la gloria eternaY apretando entre sus manosConvulsiva la moneda,Corrió por las calles abajoVeloz como una saeta.Otro día se comentaba en la prensaEl hecho de haber halladoEn el quicio de una puerta,El cadáver de una niñaAbrazada a una muñeca.