Sometimes I have to look at pictures of my first baby to remember that I ever had her. She was here so briefly, only one hour forty-three minutes. So short a time. And now I have Megan, who's edging ever closer to being a year old. She's a living, breathing, crawling, trying-to-stand-up-by-herself baby. And sometimes I forget that I had one before her. I look at the pictures of Genna and only then do I remember what it was like when her tiny fingers ever-so-slightly gripped around my "little" finger. Only then do I remember that I had to have the nurse take her away when I knew she wasn't with us anymore. Only then do I remember what it was like to see her tiny body cold in a casket.

And then I cry, not only because I miss her and wish I'd had the opportunity to raise her also. But because I so easily forget.

I mean, really, she's somewhere inside my soul, always. But not often on the surface of my awareness. She's like the faint whisper of a dream I had a long time ago.

But when I remember, she rises up in the forefront of my mind, and I see how I think she would look right now. She would be almost two and a half years old. But would she be walking, talking? What would her life be like had she survived? Sometimes, I shudder to think of it. Sometimes, I think she is better off where she is now - in the arms of Jesus.

But that doesn't change the fact that I miss her.