I walk the planet with two children, but I see the world with three.

It happened last night at the library.  We'd gone to sit on the lawn and listen to The Apple Bottom Gang.  While the sun sank slowly behind the stage, Tucker danced and Tolliver pulled up at my knees.  The lady behind us said she'd like to take Tollie home.  Even after I mentioned he still doesn't sleep through the night, she didn't seem deterred.  And then she asked whether the boys were my only children.

It may have started when I noticed another family sitting near us had the same Sophie the Giraffe toy.  Their daughter's toy was bright and squeaky.  And our was, well, not.  Ours has been well-loved by three children now.  And I said that to them.  They hadn't asked, and they may have assumed that the third was just not with us last night, was somewhere else doing something else.  They didn't ask, but I offered.  Three.

The lady behind us did ask.  And although I felt awkward saying their sister had died, although I didn't want pity and I didn't want an uncomfortable pause, I also didn't want to dishonor my daughter.

We used to take her to music on the lawn concerts.  She used to be the baby pulling up on my knees, bouncing to the beat, toes grazing summer soft grass.  That baby flits around in my dreams and in my prayers, in the back of my mind, quiet but never gone.