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Her great-grandson’s fingers were soft and small, so small. They curled around Scully’s index finger. The baby’s touch was delicate, but the hand flailed with a hunger for discovering this new world of which he had just become a part.
Just a few feet away, Scully’s granddaughter slept in the hospital bed. Her head was turned away from Scully, her messy hair—the same vibrant red Scully’s once was—covered her face. The memory of her granddaughter’s birth already felt nondescript, too similar to her current situation, too similar to every other birth she had witnessed, to stand as an independent memory. And in time, those congealed memories would fade away at the edges until there was nothing left but a nagging feeling that she couldn’t quite place.
The child cooed and Scully smiled. Her heart filled with wonder at the thought that one day those small pink lips would form their own words. And through those words an identity would grow and Scully would be there for every moment.
She tried not to think of the possibility that years in the future, she would perhaps be sitting in a hospital room, much like the one she was in now, holding the hand of this very same child. But the child would no longer be a child, and his hand would be cold and thin and tired. He would always be younger than Scully, but in that moment before his last breath escapes from those pink lips, he would be many years older.
But now was not the time to think about that inevitable moment that would happen decades in the future. As much as Scully hated the cliché, she had learned that the only way to survive forever is to live in the present. To concentrate on the little hand curling around her finger. The little hand that she would hold onto as he took his first steps. The little hand that she would grab in a panic as he ran out into the parking lot without checking for cars first. All of the moments she had missed with Emily and William.
The baby opened his eyes. They were a deep brown, glinting with an inquisitiveness and eagerness for life. The resemblance made her heart drop.
Later, when she came home from the hospital, she pulled the picture from her wallet. Already it was wrinkled and tearing at the edges. The name written on the back was ever-so-slightly beginning to fade. She had taken the photo towards the end of the his life. His hair was graying, his face wrinkled, but there was something youthful about his half-smile, the wideness of his eyes. He was sitting at his desk in their last home together. He gazed out the window, unaware that Scully had taken his photo. He probably never knew this photo existed, a thought that sometimes gave her comfort and sometimes made her feel lonelier than ever.
As her eyes traced his profile she lamented the camera’s inability to capture the depth of those eager, inquisitive eyes. She brushed her finger across the image of his face, trying to remember the feel of his skin as she whispered, “he looks just like you.”