I am at an airport right now, and there are little girls everywhere.
There are little boys everywhere too, and they catch my eye. But not like little girls.
The day we checked out of Sacred Heart in Spokane, the social worker came to talk to me, and she said, “You will see little girls everywhere.”
She was right. Here I am at the airport, alone and bored and lonely and tired, and all I can see are little girls.
There was a little girl on my flight from Santa Rosa to Seattle. She was darling, her hair was beaded, and she looked at me like she knew.
I’ve always believed that babies are the ultimate judges of character. I’ve often felt that little ones have some sort of sixth sense (or seventh sense?) that even they aren’t aware of.
I have held eye contact with so many babies today. I used to be afraid to hold eye contact with a baby – like they might look into my soul and find me wanting. Now, it’s like a baby staring contest. Who can hold this gaze longest? Do you know how badly I want my little girl?
I wish we had Hudson today. I wish for this every day, and every day my wish doesn’t come true. I imagine what she’d be like in the airport, screaming through the halls because her ears haven’t popped. I imagine her trying out her new walking skills in the wide, crowded corridors between gates. I imagine her in so many scenarios I’ll never get to experience.
The farther we get from Hudson’s birth and death, the more I realize there is no fixing this. Having another baby won’t fix the loss. No baby will ever be Hudson.
And so I see her everywhere, and nowhere at all.