My life is marked by a before, and an after. The Before was a wonderful life, filled with promise. I was carefree and oh so beautifully innocent, the future a vast ocean of opportunity and hope. You were in it, and we were happy. I never took a moment with you for granted, I was so happy and incredibly proud to be your mother. Then, one day you woke up with a headache. We didn’t think much of it, you stayed home from preschool and rested. I sat on the couch with you as you slept and stroked your soft hair, your head on my lap. But the headaches didn’t stop, and the trips to doctors began. First with the pediatrician, then to a specialist, then to the emergency room as they worsened. The fear that started off as a small pit in my stomach grew until it had its vice like grip on my soul as you got sicker, and the doctors kept hitting dead ends. Nothing helped, no explanation could be given. This mystery illness was stealing you away, slowly, painfully. You were so brave. Then you were gone. You were only four. Now I live in the After. I am a shell of who I was, I am no longer me. I am the keeper of unrealized dreams. It is as if my skin has been removed, and the raw pain is all encompassing. I am unable to comprehend that you no longer exist in this world. I no longer exist in it either, instead I float through it like a ghost. Gravity feels so heavy, the sun is not quite as bright. I see people living their lives and going about their days and want to scream, “How can you be so normal? How can you continue on when such a beautiful light has been extinguished from this world?” I wonder if I will ever be able to laugh with all my being again, will I ever be able to feel true happiness without the sadness roiling right underneath the surface? I miss Before. I miss you, and I miss the Me that I was with you. She died with you that cold December day.