by Rebecca Reid
“Hey, there’s Daddy!” She tugged my arm.
I saw his head first. His right arm rested on the railing, calm, waiting. No pressure, no anxiety.
One foot before the other and he was before me. I tried to focus on his eyes, his face. I searched for words to speak.
“Hi.” His body leaned toward mine and I felt his kiss on my forehead. His arm grasped my shoulder and then he released me.
The child was chattering. And bouncing around us. His free arm rested on her shoulder. We walked. People bumped me as they passed.
I heard him speak. First to our girl. Then to a man near us as we reached for the suitcase.
We walked again. I stopped and zipped the girl’s coat, despite her protests. And then he was driving and she was babbling about princesses. I sat beside him.
A right turn. A stop sign. The highway. We were moving. He grasped my hand. He wouldn’t let go.
“I …” I couldn’t speak; I was dry. I had done my crying alone when I realized the baby was lost.
He glanced at me, and I saw his eyes were wet. He spoke, the corners of his mouth turned in a half-smile.
“I love you.”
The flood overwhelmed me as it had two nights before. But this time I was hopeful, for we could still go on.