Maybe you’re the bird. The one I see outside my door. The one who flies so low it seems you’re somehow weighted down. Like you’re carrying more than just yourself. Like you’re carrying a message. Just for me.

Maybe you’re the rain. The sound I hear that reminds me so much of home. Of you. Of driving in your car as a little girl when you looked over and asked my opinion about everything. When you made someone so small feel so very big.

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Maybe you’re the butterfly. The one I saw this morning in the garden. Charlotte reached out as you landed on the flower. And just for a moment, as if to say hello, you stayed.

Maybe you’re Jack’s laugh. The one only I can get when making silly faces and tickling him just right. You melt my heart and remind me of what a miracle he really is. How much I love him. And how much you must’ve loved me, too.

Maybe you’re the smile. The one I get from strangers at the grocery store. You greet me on the darkest days, when I feel like everything is going wrong. And then I see you in the checkout line, and I remember. You told me someday, I’d make such a great mom.

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Maybe you’re the sunset. The one we watch together as a family by the ocean. With their tiny hands in mine and my husband at my side, your warmth surrounds us. Like a hug. Like the one you never got the chance to give. But as I watch you disappear behind the waves, I realize it was never really goodbye. That it was only just goodnight.

Because maybe you are. Maybe you are all these things. Just, maybe.

Originally published on Today: Parenting Team