Four years, five months, two days.

I am sitting here this morning in a daze. Exhaustion mixed with this restlessness. Above my computer hangs three small little angels. One for each year old my daughter would be had she lived. This coming month is when she would be turning four. I can do nothing tonight but wonder what she would be like. Would she be a little princess playing with dolls or a tom boy playing with mud? Would she look like her daddy with piercing blue eyes or have my round brown stare? She would be old enough to go into preschool and be away from me. But she has already spent four years, five months, two days away from me. I sit here staring at these small angels and know I need to begin my search for a fourth. Every time I come close to losing it. The grief is physically painful. I want to be waking her up and getting her ready for day instead of trying to find a memorial for her.