A pause.

I look down at your precious sleeping head, those rose-bud shaped lips that occasionally still suckle in their sleep, and I remembered.

She always told me I had rosebud shaped lips.

I look at the way your blonde locks fall on each side of your perfectly-smooth baby skin. It is like ropes of gold.

She used to braid my hair back and tell me how beautiful my golden rope was.

I brush the sun-streaked locks from your forehead and kiss you, ever so gently, as to not wake you but to share my never-ending love with you.

I wonder if she kissed my head while I slept.

I see you admire the clouds as the golden rays gleam from behind the ominous darkness.

I wonder if she is up there, seeing all this from a different and slightly more beautiful angle.

I watch as you stare at your leg, your beautifully shaped leg, with it's new hard shell and try to figure a way to move about the room.

And I wonder, do you even remember when she too had a shell on her leg? We traced your hand on it. You were so scared and she was so embarrassed.

We are so much alike, you and I. Even our baby pictures are unmistakable, without the ponytails.

When you were born, she had told me this. She said you would resemble me both in looks and temperament.

I wish you could remember her. I wish you could have loved her the way I did when I was your age. I wish I could have loved her with that same passion when she died.

Today, I greave. Today, I miss her. But with each day, I am learning to appreciate that despite all the pain, regardless of the sorrow, she tried. She wanted to be the mother I am. Yes, I said it. I am a good mother to you. You are my littliest one and I will forever kiss you goodnight.