49 children were murdered in a night club in Orlando this week.
49 sons and daughters, carried in the swollen bellies of mothers who waited breathlessly for them to arrive.
49 nurseries prepared with brightly colored walls and soft, and furry animals just waiting to welcome them home.
49 smooth, helpless, perfect bundles, cradled in the crook of the arms of proud, nervous parents and loving siblings and beaming grandparents.
49 middle of the night cries, rushed to by sleepless caregivers whose very voices quieted the fear.
49 sweet-smelling heads with swirls of fuzzy hair spirals.
49 pairs of doughy hands, pulling themselves up onto end tables, and one moment pushing away and reaching toward outstretched arms.
49 pairs of wobbly legs begin to find their strength.
49 first words, greeted with wild exuberance by tearful, applauding witnesses.
49 first days of school, with new lunch boxes and butterflied tummies and dreams of what will be.
A candlelight vigil in Orlando. Image supplied.
49 gloriously off-key first grade recitals.
49 paper mache volcanos.
49 early morning snuggles.
49 toothless, jack-o-lantern smiles.
49 wide-eyed mortals realizing they are superheroes.