The first night I met my birthfamily, it snowed.
We had the visit planned for months. We decided that they would come over Christmas break. A huge snowstorm had hit New York City only a few days before they arrived. Driving from JFK to our house, they got lost in the frosted concrete jungle, and my father had to take the old Volvo out to get them and bring them home.
My room had never been so clean. I scrubbed the white and blue marble floors, rearranged all of my stuffed animals on my bed, folded my clothes, and even cleaned the dust out from the creases in the blinds. I waited in my bedroom, and stared out the window, feeling the cold glass against my nose and cheeks. When they opened the door, my dad came in first. Julia my birthsister, and then finally, Paul, my birthfather. I stared, frozen to the floor like the ice that clung to our windows.
I remember rushing up stairs to play with the dog and Julia in my room. I remember hearing my parents and Paul go into the living room to talk.
And that's it. I have a few pictures from that visit. Julia wears a red shirt, and smells like vanilla and sugar. I have my long blond hair straightened, I am wearing a knit white sweater and dark jeans. My dog is young, puppy-like. The Christmas tree is still up, adorned with the white lights and antique ornaments.
But other than these few photos and scattered memories, the visit is lost to me. Sometimes, Paul or one of my parents will bring it up, and they will recount moments that I have no memory of.
My mother tells me that I cried for weeks afterwards. I don't remember this. I don't remember any of it. I can't recall how long they stayed, what we did, or what we said.
These memories are buried deep in my subconscious- lost to me forever. It is amazing what our brains will do for us to relieve our pain, to alleviate our stresses, to dress our wounds.
My reunion has not been easy. In fact, it has been the hardest thing I've ever done. This journey, this path to the truth, to my self-entirety, has been long. And it all started on that snowy day when the icicles hung thick from every window pane. When the snow was so deep we could hardly walk, when the air was clear and my mind unburdened. What would I give to return to that moment, anxiously cleaning every crevice of my bedroom, looking out my window, waiting. What I would give to think like I did back then. I ask myself, now, years later if I would have gone through with it. When my father drove to pick them up, to guide them to the sister and daughter they had relinquished long ago, would I have let him had I known that I'd never be the same? I want to return to that moment--with my hand on the doorknob, ready to let the family that left me back into my life. With what I know now-would I have opened the door?
