I know it’s her before she’s fully in view.

It was in how the wind caught her hair as she crests the apex of the bridge; turning and twisting in a familiar chaos before she brushes it away from her face, and I see her.

She hasn’t noticed that I am there. I’m a solitary observer of her approach as her eyes are elsewhere; watching the river, catching glances with passersby and trading acknowledging smiles and head nods. But then she sees me, and our eyes connect. She is smiling, and I feel that I am smiling, too.

It goes deeper than that, though. The smile, the joy that’s shared between us. There’s something deeply personal that’s shared in the space between us. I can feel a quick constriction in my throat; a tightening and a dryness about my eyes. I want to look away and have a moment to compose myself, but I also want to share this sense of feeling and emotion with her so that she knows my love without having to say it.

She is almost to me.

She’ll reach for me, and I’ll reach for her.

The wind catches her hair.

I reach out to brush it away so I can see her eyes, but before I touch her, I’m awake.

And I’m alone.

Rolling over, I look at the alarm, and it’s only three. The night weighs heavy. I’m awake and I feel awake, but I know I should go back to sleep.

The stars are out. Looking through an exposed slit in our blinds, I can see their tiny pinpricks of light.

It’s enough light to illuminate a single strand of red hair laying on what was her pillow. The red hue has faded to a dull orange that barely registers. Its sheen has gone. I can feel how brittle it is as I hold it between my fingers, pulling it straight, turning it to catch a bit of starlight; a reminder of her presence in the house.

She’s there in her dresser, the clothes in her closet, her side of the bathroom sink, and in every crevice of the house as follicles and particles.

I see her on the bridge.

The wind catches her hair.

She would say that it’s too windy; that the wind is annoying.

But I want to be that wind.

The strand of hair snaps, and I let it drift down onto the sheets so that it can be found again on an equally lonely morning.

I can hear unintelligible moaning coming from Eleanor’s room. As I gather up some scraps of empathy, the moans turn into sad little sobs, and I stumble from my bed, down the hall, and into her room.

“Did you have a bad dream?” I ask her gently.

Her eyes are wet and when she sees me she screams, “Get out! Get out!”

But she’s only five, so I don’t leave, and I ask, “Do you not feel good?”

“Get out!” she screams again.

I try a different approach. “Did you get hurt?”

“Get out!”

And another. “Does your belly hurt?”

“Get out!”

I kneel down, so that I’m at her level. “I want to help you. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Through the whimpers, the blubbering, and the tears, she says, “I want Mommy.”

And I’m silent.

She knows. I know she knows. She was there. We said goodbye. We talked about heaven and a better place and angels.

“Baby,” I say, but pause unsure of what to say next. Then quietly add, “Mommy’s not here.”

“I want Mommy!” she yells, sitting defiantly on her bed. “Mommy-mommy-mommy-mommy!”

“Mommy’s not here. Remember?”

She has slid to the floor now. I reach for her, but she kicks at me. I try to pull her into a hug, but she slaps my hands away, using her feet to push herself further away, still repeating the screaming mantra of mommy-mommy-mommy.

“Do you want to come sleep in my room?” I ask.

“Mommy-mommy-mommy-mommy!” Each syllable is punctuated by her feet pounding at the floor.

I feel helpless. I sit on the floor some distance away, leaning my head against the wall, thinking about how I’d rather be sleeping.

I’m not sure how much time has passed. She isn’t screaming or speaking, but she is still crying. I reach for her again to lift her back into bed and things intensify again, so I get up and leave her room, shutting her door, then shutting my door, laying back down in my bed, and within seconds I’m asleep.