A chronicle of my journey of learning to live again after the loss of my precious daughter, Hudson, and my attempt to find meaning in her death
Friday, October 29, 2010
We ran into some neighbors tonight at a new restaurant on our street. We only know them from walking our respective dogs and haven’t run into them since Hudson died. The wife looked at us and put up her hands jokingly and said, “Where’s Hudson?” clearly expecting that we’d say she was at home with a babysitter or some other natural explanation. This was the first time this had happened to us, in this way, at least. My face fell and my heart seized and I said, “Oh… actually, she passed away in May.” Tears sprang instantly to my eyes and to hers. She came around our table and gave me a hug. We explained what had happened, and she told us how she always loved to see Hudson standing in the front door with Bess, waving at her as she walked by with her dog. I said that lots of people have told us that.
We were on our way out and as soon as we got to the car, I lost it completely (for about the 20th time today—my eyes are burning at this point). I just kept saying the same thing to Ed over and over again: