The Space Between...

It looks as if the visit isn’t going to happen. Surprisingly enough, it has nothing to do with my end. I called my birthfather over this weekend, informing him of the death of my aunt (who he had met on more than one occasion) and he told me that he probably would not be able to make it up North to visit. His work, paired with his stepdaughters wedding, would make it hard for him to get away. I was disappointed, of course. I had finally gotten used to the idea, and was even looking forward to it. I was hopeful about what this would mean for our relationship. But it looks like any visit will have to be put off until next summer, once I return to the USA.

His reasons are totally valid. I get it. And yet somehow I can’t help but wonder if its some sort of excuse, if he is just making up some reasons to not see me. Isn’t that silly of me? He has wanted to have a visit for a long time. He has never done anything to give me the impression that he doesn’t want me in his life. In fact, quite the opposite. And yet I can’t shake these feelings of “Oh God… he’s going to disappear!”

I know that even now, after 10 years, there is still that element of caution in our reunion. My birthfather usually allows me to call him, not the other way around. He tells me that he does not want to disturb me. I always gladly pick up the phone when I see his name on my caller ID, I always respond quickly to his voicemails…and he does the same for me. And yet he is afraid to bother me. He has never been anything but constant in his relationship with me, and yet I am afraid that he does not want to see me again, nervous that he is making up excuses to avoid coming to visit.

How does this happen? Our relationship, that was once so primal, is now so strained. For seemingly no reason! How does this happen- immediate family members struggling to bridge the distance, to close the gaps, to make up for the years we surrendered and lost. I can’t help but wonder sometimes if reunion isn’t just a sad, partner less dance : two groups of people moving in different circles- desperately trying to recreate a link that once existed.

By now I think both my birthfather and I know that it’s impossible- that the bonds that have been broken between us can never be repaired, not fully. I think we both know that the identity I was born into has long disappeared- that the baby who was once his daughter is now grown up, a woman who has created an existence around his absence, one that he can never fully have access to.

This is one of the saddest parts of reunion, I think. I can’t presume to speak for him, but I can speak for myself. It seemingly is not important what we do, how we act. No matter how many times we visit each other, no matter how many long and involved conversations we have, no matter how many beautiful moments we spend together- it seems that subconsciously we return to that one pivotal moment. It seems that no matter how many times we reach out and find the other person waiting for us, loving us- we can never forget that one time when we reached out and were left grappling- yearning for a love that we were never supposed to miss.

Mother's Day

I thought about my birthmother on mothers day. I really did. I even picked up my old photo album and flipped through the pages. On those pages there are plenty of numbers, spanning back about 6 or 7 years. I would keep her numbers in my photo album, never in my address book- afraid someone would open it and see. There are a lot of numbers, all with different area codes. She never kept numbers for long. She never kept residences for long. She rolled about like a tumbleweed- forever moving, forever elusive.


I though about her all throughout the day. As I delicately wrapped the gifts I had purchased for my own mother-  an eclectic middle eastern style necklace, some boxes of 85% cocoa chocolate, and other various knickknacks I had collected over the past month. I thought about her when I baked the mothers day cake, when I trimmed off the edges to make the cake into the shape of a heart, when I iced it with nutella.


I try to imagine what it would have been like to call her, to speak to her. I can hardly remember her voice now, I can’t even tell you what she sounds like. Would she have been  high, or drunk? Would she have been happy to hear from me, or angry like last time?


I know my other siblings don’t think about her.
“She was never a mother to us,” said one, even though she was not placed . “She’s not MY mother. She dug her own hole, now she lies in it. Everything bad in her life she created herself.”


And it is, isn’t it? I make a lot of excuses for my birthmother. At the end of the day, she’s just like the rest of us. She lived the life she chose- free of obligation and care. She lived the way she wanted but she paid a terrible price. And so did her children. Every one of us.


We’re getting together now…slowly. 3 out of 9 are over the legal age. In a few months the 4th will join us, and then the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th. By 2024 the last of her children will have turned 18. I wonder if they will try and find me, or one of the other siblings. I wonder what I can say to them to ease their way, to soothe their hurt. How can I explain our mother to them- in all of her radiant, yet disastrous beauty? Love and its weakness. How can I tell  them that she loved us but didn’t protect us, mothered but didn’t parent, tried but didn’t succeed, fought but never won? Love and its failure.


I thought about her on Mother’s day. And maybe I shouldn’t have. But either way, wherever she is- I hope she felt it. So here’s a quiet happy mothers day- to the mother who gave me every day of my life.

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.