The little girl caught my eye immediately. There were other little girls there, but this one I honed in on with directness and fervor. Two women started talking to her grandfather about her age.
"Of course she is two!" I thought to myself.
It has been seven years since I lost my daughters in a house fire, but I still zero in on two and four year old girls. They draw me in with a hypnotic and devastating singleness. How do I know? It doesn't matter that they are large or small for their age, or what their maturity level is. I know. I suppose that is natural since Gwendolyn was four and Margaret was two.
The depression is still hard to fight after seeing a little girl of their age, and being smacked with the realization that they are forever etched in my mind as infants. I wonder often what they would be like if they were still alive. Would Gwendolyn still be the little lady who loved life and was always just so pleased with herself and everything that happened to her? Would Margaret still love the color blue, and still be the better dancer who watched and waited until she was ready to dance?
So many questions unanswered and poignantly waiting in silence, never to be answered in this life.When, I wonder will my arms stop feeling so empty?
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