You should be 2 years old. We would not be marking the occasion in any spectacular way, other than your mommy and daddy looking back on how you had changed in that amount of time. You would probably be walking and even trying to run. Talking, chasing your sister, getting into her things. I wonder if you would still be breastfeeding? Probably. Getting to the 2 year old picky eater stage? I wouldn't be a bit surprised. But. You are not here with us. You are sleeping in a small white box with your grandmother on a hill outside of Nelson. You're wrapped in a blanket, wearing pajamas, and the only mama-mades that I was able to put on you. I'm glad you're wearing them. It made it easier for me to let them put you up there when it was snowing. I knew you wouldn't feel it, my baby, but still I didn't want you to be cold. I cared for you for as long as I could. Instead I sit here, writing this and hoping that someday Jehovah will resurrect you, as he promised he ...