ADVERTISEMENT
The return journey from the cemetery home had become a blurry image.
Most days since the funeral have been the same.
I took the longer route, straight through the shopping center, because I felt like I was slowly drowning if I stayed inside.
Then I saw her.
A young woman was sitting on the sidewalk in front of a supermarket.
She had a baby with her.
A cardboard sign rested against his leg.
The little girl slept close to his chest in a carrier whose worn straps looked as if they could break at any moment.
I parked three rows away and just watched.
Maybe an hour has passed. Maybe even longer.
Keeping track of time had become just as difficult as everything else.
Then my mind made a decision that my heart had not yet accepted.
Eventually, I drove home.
I walked past the closed nursery door six times before forcing myself to open it.
I went inside quietly and leaned back in the recliner I had bought for Noah.
‘You are never coming home again,’ I whispered in the empty room. ‘I will never be your mother, but today I saw another baby who might need your things. I want to help him… I hope you don’t mind.’
The mobile above her cradle moved a little.
I started packing.
The little car, which was still in the box, eventually ended up in my car.
I filled bags with the giraffe blanket, diapers, and onesies.
I kept the hat my mother had knitted and the dinosaur pajamas Noah had worn in the hospital; the only piece of clothing he had worn, apart from the suit he wore when he went home and which is buried with him.
—
When I came back, the young woman slowly lifted her head.
In her eyes was reflected the suppressed emptiness of someone who had learned not to expect kindness anymore.
‘I brought a few things,’ I said through the open window. ‘For your baby.’
I am not asking for anything.
She carefully sat up and held the sleeping baby against her body.
I opened the trunk.
Her expression changed as soon as she saw everything inside.
‘I can’t handle all of this anymore,’ she whispered.
