Everyday.

I wake up in the morning. I hear the silence. The space. The void where her cries ought to be.

I pour my coffee. I smell the caffeine that won't be in my breast milk. 

I pee.  I remember the catheter at the hospital. 

I drive to work. I'm blinded by the sun. I feel her in its warmth. 

My mind drifts to her a thousand times a day. In a hundred different ways. 

Sometimes for a moment, sometimes without ceasing. 

I check my rear view mirror. I see the missing car seat. Sometimes, it's almost there. 

I play with my son. I feel the absence of his sister. 

I hear him say her name. My heart is flooded with pain and with joy. 

I hold my husband's hand. I feel his finger. It's missing the tiny hand, that should grasp it so tightly. 

I crawl in bed. I long to dream of her. Hopeful every night. 

I go to the grocery story. So many things not on this list. So many babies all around. 

I sit at a wedding. No dress for her. No big day. No father daughter dance. 

I cry. She doesn't. 

I laugh. She never will. 

Do I think of her everyday? 

A thousand times a day. 

A hundred different ways.