"Eli, stop that!" I exclaimed, startling him. He was dumping his juice cup, dribbling juice all over the tray and the remains of the toast and oranges he'd had for breakfast. Reaching for a towel, I wiped up the mess, watching him watch me as only a baby can, fascinated with the motions of the towel and my vigorous scrubbing.

He looks so much like Ethan it hurts to look at him sometimes. He finds the same joy in living that Ethan did and, along with other similarites, gives us great fears that something similiar will happen to this, our last child, too.

We'd been hurting hard a few weeks ago. Fall beginning,the upcoming holidays, the deaths of Princess Diana and Mother Teresa splashed all over the tv and papers. Resentment had welled, quickly pushed down. Why was my son not as important? My son will not live to see or do the things these women did; but he was just as important as they, to us. Where were the cameras and journalists when my son convulsed and died? The death of a child is a simple thing--not important, not newsworthy--except to the family.

Our society places little respect on the death of child. They turn their heads, ignoring, perhaps hoping if they don't look at the bereaved then we will go away, or that our pain will. We do not teach children or young adults about death as we should. How are they to grow and nuture the next generation of children if we do not show them now how to comfort and support those who have lost a loved one, a child?

Eli whines, bringing me out of my reverie. Angry now, at my thoughts and distraction and at being pushed away from my pain, I stomp into Eli's room, feet resounding even through our carpeting. I change Eli's diaper, thinking of the many times I did it for Ethan, of all the things I do for Eli now that I did for my firstborn. Giggling as he reached for the rock he plays with at such times, Eli grabs his toes, daring me to play "This little piggy." I marvel at his hair; almost identical to Ethan's. Soft, burnished copper, loosely wrapped curls surround his face like a halo. Looking at him, I whisper, "Ethan?" . . . stopping, just for a moment, wondering whether it's possible that a piece of my beloved firstborn could be here, in this my lastborn.

Eli screeches, laughing at the picture of Bert over the changing table. Startled, I pick him up and rock him in the large overstuffed green chair we have in his room for that purpose. "I'm sorry," I whisper, apologizing for using Ethan's name. I will try to glory in the similiarities, but also the differences, of these, my first and last babes. One the baby of my heart, the other a babe in arms; both intertwined in a complexity of thoughts, emotions, and curly red hair.

Scrambling down, Eli toddles off down the hall, after one of way-to-many kittens. I will not make that mistake again, I think . . . wondering whether I will. Eli is himself, and not Ethan; I struggle with the similarities daily, but also the differences. My son is dead; nothing will bring him back. He will be dead each and every day of my life, and wishing and hoping will not change that, no matter how hard I try.

Sighing, I follow Eli, tracing a path to him through the toys, kittens, and the sound of his infectious giggle and high-pitched voice yelling "Cat, cat." Taking a kitten out of his grasp, hugging him close, I am glad he is not Ethan. I am glad I can celebrate the difference, now, between them. Sad yes, but happy too that this lastborn son with his curly red hair has lived and has not died.

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