I sometimes hear it in my mind, an echo of that day nearly a year ago now. 


My baby!


I hear the sobs, too.  Always. 


Andrew is holding me, but he is shaking so badly I cannot tell who is supporting who.  I have him turn her small body towards me so I can look at her from my hospital bed.  Her face is tiny and sweet there in the half dark and I can't look away, willing her to move, to breath.  I try to memorize her features, the shape of those little lips and the upturned nose.  I wish I could see her eyes.  


Later, cradling her in my arms, we take off the hat she is wearing and kiss her soft head, her hair, her ears.  We look at her fingers and toes.  Over and over, I stroke her cheek. 


I don't want to let her go.  The nurses tell us to keep her as long as we want.  To love on her as much as we can.  They knew, though.  Of course they knew it would never be enough.  And as I wondered at the delicate skin of her neck and her earlobes, I knew too.  My daughter was taken from me and this will never even come close to being enough.