I got Hudson’s social security card in the mail last week.
I wasn’t expecting a social security card for her. I don’t know why. It took me by surprise. It took my breath away, made me ache for our little girl, made tears well up in my eye sockets and made my chest compress with grief.
But happiness too.
A social security card for Hudson is like more indisputable proof that she existed, that she lived, that she was here with us however briefly.
I want to frame it, or put it on the fridge. I want to post a picture of it on Facebook (but of course will not because we don’t need anybody stealing our daughter’s identify). I’ve looked at it over and over, memorized it.
My physical proof that Hudson was here is starting to fade… breast milk no longer an issue, the baby weight all but gone (just a few pounds to go), a C-section scar that is changing from angry purple to softer shades of red.
My emotional proof that Hudson was here is constant, a need for my child’s presence that fluctuates from a dull ache in my gut to a full-body burn that consumes me both physically and mentally.
But here, on my kitchen table, is a series of 9 numbers assigned to my beautiful baby girl by an entity that never saw her or felt her kick or heard her heartbeat but acknowledges her just the same.