At the Florence airport, of course I’m thinking of you – the traveler. I get to the airport early after a wild taxi ride in morning traffic, make my way through all the gates and check-in duties, and begin the wait. Upstairs, at the gate that will eventually take me to Amsterdam and then Boston, so many people are lined up. Sitting in uncomfortable chairs, or walking around, all of us chatting about the various inconveniences and humors of travel.

Suddenly, I almost gasp. In one chair, sitting by herself, is an older woman with your face, your white hair. She’s more wrinkled than you ever were, but something about the hair, the dignity, is so familiar that, Oh, for just a moment I let myself believe – that it is you. I know I’m entering into a truth that isn’t true, but I so want it to be you! I so want to just sit with that moment or two of pretending. I still miss you, I guess. Or wouldn’t be too surprised if you showed up. I’m still holding the door open, just in case there is anything of you left. Today, it’s a stranger, a lone woman, with your face.

Maybe our lives will always be made up of those we’ve loved, even when they’re gone. Maybe you’re just a skin’s width away. Here I’ve been, wandering around the streets of Florence or Tuscany, relishing the adventures of just heading out, willing to be surprised, and you’ve felt so close.

Now, we’re delayed and might miss the connecting flight to Boston. But it’s been so sweet to think of you, to see that little reminder in (not quite) your face, Little One. You’re still so dear.