I miss you, Mom. I missed you when I looked at Jack today and saw his grin with one jagged little tooth poking through. You and Jack would have been great friends. I missed you today when I hit "send" on the e-mail containing my curricula, six separate sex education programs for teens that I wrote and got copyrights for. You and I would have had many important conversations about the work I am doing now. I wish I had paid more attention when you were writing grants and working for Victory--I would have learned so much from you on a professional level. I'm sorry that I didn't always pay close attention. I missed you today when I made a shopping and packing list for vacation--a vacation that we should be taking with you. I got the babies matching terry cloth rompers to wear over their bathing suits. Jack's is white and blue and green and Hazel's is white and blue and pink. I missed you today when I strolled through the farmer's market with Jack, feeling the sunshine kiss my shoulders. I bought zucchini and tomatoes--two things you loved--and imagined chopping them up in a bowl and smothering them with Ken's Light Caesar dressing and then enjoying the simple summer salad with you. I missed you in the middle of the night when Jack woke up 5 times because his teeth hurt. Everything seems worse in the middle of the night and there was no one to call and talk to. I missed you today when I got dressed for work and put on your earrings and your ring. I missed you when I stopped at Subway and got a Diet Coke. I know you told me I should stop drinking Diet Coke, but sometimes I can't help but indulge a guilty pleasure. I missed you today when I was trying to think of what to make for dinner and stumbled across a handwritten recipe you had carefully copied down onto a note card. I wish I could cook like you could. I can't believe that you've been gone for 723 days. I thought I would start to miss you less, but I miss you more.