Perched on the bathroom sink with your baby feet on the drain, I let you eat toothpaste. Just a bit.
You giggle with a wide-toothed grin as I guide a wide-toothed comb through your wet, well-conditioned hair.
A tranquil gaze at me through the mirror. You can’t know that I’m really thinking of her. Again. How her hair was just a hint darker.  Her curls more relaxed.
I parted her hair on the left, so I part yours on the right. Another loud statement from me to the world, that you are no replacement.
But my thoughts stay quiet and I let myself wonder; had she stayed with me longer, would her hair have lightened? Would her curls have tightened?
I give your hair a swish, a scrunch and a spray.
You manage to turn on the hot water, soaking your fresh socks. I smile like you want me to, but again I want to cry. Remembering her. Wondering why her curls had to stop short.