The young woman who had been sitting next to me gave me a quiet, almost knowing smile. “You just helped them,” she whispered as I walked back.
I returned to my seat slowly, the babies still resting warmly and safely against my chest, and I just began talking. Maybe I was talking to the woman next to me. Maybe I was talking to myself. Or maybe I was just talking aloud to keep my fragile heart from completely breaking apart.
I told her all about my beautiful daughter. I told her about my bright, funny grandson. I told her about the heartbreaking memorial service I was flying to, and about the devastatingly empty house I was returning to.
She politely asked where I lived. I told her all about my little yellow house with the big, sturdy oak tree out front. It was the kind of overly specific detail you only share with kind strangers when your heart is far too full and messy to keep things tidy.
When the plane finally touched down on the tarmac, I didn’t let go. I carried both babies straight through the terminal to airport security.
