... is walking into her room, seeing the empty crib, breathing in deeply, and smelling her. But she's not here.

It's the smell.

Not seeing her things everywhere I turn. Not folding clothes for a child that isn't here. Not tripping over the saucer and the swing. Not seeing the bouncy seat next to our bed. It's the smell of her. The smell of sweet skin and diaper cream and oatmeal made with prune juice.

It's just the smell of her.