A young woman was sitting on the pavement in front of a supermarket.
She had a baby with her.
A cardboard sign rested against his leg.
The tiny infant slept against her chest in a baby carrier whose worn straps looked as if they were about to break.
I parked three rows away and just watched her.
Perhaps an hour passed. Maybe more.
Time had become as difficult to hold onto as everything else.
Then my mind made a decision that my heart had not yet accepted.
Finally, I drove back home.
I walked past the closed baby room door six times before forcing myself to open it.
I went in quietly and leaned against the nursing rocking chair I had bought for Noah.
"You'll never come home again," I whispered into the empty room. "I can never be your mom, but today I saw another baby who might need your things. I want to help them... I hope you don't mind."
The mobile above her crib moved slightly.
I started packing my bags.
The boxed stroller went into my car.
I filled bags with the giraffe blanket, diapers, and bodysuits.
I kept the hat my mother had knitted and the dinosaur onesie Noah had worn in the hospital—the only clothes he had worn besides the "going home" outfit we buried with him.
—
When I returned, the young woman slowly raised her head.
Her eyes held the cautious emptiness of someone who had learned not to expect kindness.
"I brought some things," I said through the open window. "For your baby."
—I'm not asking for anything.
She stood up carefully, holding the sleeping infant against her body.
I opened the trunk.
Her expression changed as soon as she saw everything inside.
"I can't accept all this," she whispered.
—Madam, this is—
"Please! My name is Kate," I said, my voice breaking. "My... son. Noah. He didn't come home from the hospital. Please... let his things help you. Let his life mean something."
"I'm so sorry for your loss," she said, looking at her baby. "I can't even imagine..."
Her words trailed off as she looked back at the trunk.
