Mama stands by the kitchen sink with baby X resting at her hip. Somewhere on the cool marble floor baby Y crawls towards the prize. Serenity. The sunlight peaks quietly and softly through the puke green curtains. Some would call that serenity, too; the hard light kissing both mother and babe's cheek, but Mama calls it an iron chain attached to her stomach that pulls and yanks until she feels nauseous. Her mind slips honestly to the obligation giggling into her pronounced shoulder. The child soft like a newly fluffed pillow molds to fit a piece of Mama that has been chipped away. Serenity to some, not quite yet to others. Mama's blank (slate) stare doesn't slip, fade to Baby Y as the impressionable youth presses a miniature palm against a floor to ceiling (heaven) window to another world. The backyard. She finds her voice in nature. We will call her Spring. We will call her the baby bird that Mama needs as a reminder. Somewhere on the cool marble floor, baby Y coos. Mama scoops up Y drawing her near. She cradles her souls at her sides, but doesn't yet realize it. "Its okay, Mama," Baby Y giggles in a language only her and her sister know, "That moment won't slip away as quick as you think. We are your babies and we need you." Mama sighs. She is not ready to understand. "Someday, someday," Baby X coos to the sound of her sister's laughter. "We love you no matter what." But, sadly, Mama has dishes to do. She doesn't have time to understand.