A little girl should have turned seven this month.
Her mother’s biggest fear is that she will be forgotten. She was only four when she died, unexpectedly. Tragically.
Though she didn’t speak a word in her time here, her joyful, sweet presence will always color how all of us, lucky enough to know her, will see the world.
Last week, mother nature conjured up a snowfall of delicate spring blossom petals. Amidst the soft swirl of powder-pink light, a small butterfly darted joyfully.
This is how I think of Shelby.