Sometimes her tiny kitten tongue stuck out when I popped the baby off my breast. Rose, in the curl of that tiny shell. In the blush of her cheek. Not the coral of the hot house ranunculus, nor the magenta of the thorny bougainvillea. But rather the almost invisible color of high cirrus clouds feathering the last rays of the sun, the secret twist of the conch washed ashore then back out to sea with the tide. Never on her clothes, yet she wears it everywhere. A glow thrumming under the skin. The color of cotton candy, the airy batting of childhood. Pale, new, and fleeting.