I think of her all the time, you know. She is the undercurrent of my every thought, each in and out breath. She is woven in the fabric of every brainwave, she colors my speech even when I don't speak her name.
But I look for her too. As though I might know her, or recognize her outside of my one day of memory. Could that be her, that lazy, lumbering bumblebee buzzing and bobbing near my face? Or the butterfly, flitting and darting overhead along the way on our walk? Is that her, the deer in the cemetery, watching me as I run down the street? Maybe that's her, the flower that opens at dusk each night.
I know better, though. The bee, the butterfly, the deer and the flower, they are all just what they are. Earlier, the butterfly was a caterpillar wriggling and inching along the ground, and the bee is heavy with pollen from an afternoon of gathering. The deer, he's just a curious, shy creature who's somehow found himself living in the city, albeit in the most peaceful and woods-like spot. That flower's been opening since before I was born. These creatures are simply creatures, not here for any other reason than to be here.
I wish I could believe otherwise.
But then. I think of her constantly. As though my thinking and wondering and wishing could make her be with me, in our family as a girl instead of the memory of a baby. And maybe since the bee, and the butterfly, and the deer and the flower give me pause before realizing they just are what they are, maybe she is there.