I've been thinking about my mother (birthmother) a lot recently. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it is because I will be leaving the country in less than three weeks, and I'll be living abroad for at least the next year. As I prepare to start a new chapter in my life, perhaps it is inevitable that I think of her. She would love where I'm going- the 800 year old buildings arching high above the olive groves and cobblestone streets, the beautiful language, the passion and the sensuality of the ancient city that I'll call home.
Both of my mothers have taught me to appreciate and treasure beautiful things- to find truth and loveliness in their most simple forms, to love passionately and to feel deeply. And it is with this in mind that I try and remember the beautiful things about my birthmother- her sense of fantasy, her spiritual profoundity, her love of animals and music. I struggle, sometimes, with anger towards her. I feel unloved by her, resentful (perhaps foolishly) that she was unable to overcome her addictions and be my mother. But within the past few months I have been trying to live compassionately, to foster only feelings of compassion and love for the mother who, I know, would have given anything to have raised me.
She lived in a sort of alternative universe. When I would spend time with her, or speak to her by phone, she rarely asked me about my adoptive parents, or my life within my family. To her, time had not passed- I was still her baby, her sweet infant who needed and relied on her. She would do most of the talking. She never discussed the past, or my other siblings. She would tell me only about the beautiful things in her life- the stray kitten she found and nursed back to health, the nice man she met at mass, the beautiful flowers that grew outside of her apartment building. She would tell me what a beautiful baby I was, how my skin and hair were as white as frost. I rarely asked questions about the past. I knew that she didn't like talking about it, I knew that she could not bear to face the consequences of the choices she made. The last time I spoke to her,however, she came close to telling me about my relinquishment and adoption. She began the story- described the last time we were together as mother and daughter.She described the blanket she gave me, and the small stuffed cat.
"After you left," she said "I stood by the door for hours. I knew that you were miles away, on the way to your new life. But I couldn't bear to leave the door. I didn't want to see you go. I just didn't want to see you go."
My mother lived in a world of her own creation. One where we were still mother and daughter, one without drugs or prison or sadness or separation. She often talked to me about her dreams for our future- about how one day we would be together as a family. One day she and my birthfather, together with me and my siblings, would all be together- living together as the family we were meant to be. "One day," she told me, " I hope you will come home."
So as I prepare to leave the country of my birth, as I prepare to begin a new chapter of my life in a new city, I cannot help but feel that I am leaving her behind. I cannot help but miss her, as I continue to live my life without her. One of the last times I saw her, my birth mother gave me a small porcelain angel. It is creamy white, roughly the size of my palm- a small cherub on his knees praying. There are a few glue marks where the porcelain has been roughly glued together, due to a few falls. But despite how delicate it is, I know I will bring it with me to Italy. I bring it everywhere I go. It will sit on my nightstand, as it always does, reminding me every evening to stay mindful, to notice the beauty around me. I never told my mother that I would not be coming home to her. I couldn't bring myself to tell her, even though somehow I have a feeling she already knew. But I'll bring the little cherub with me, as a reminder of the many gifts she gave me. I'll bring it so that, in some small way, she's always with me- present not only within my bones and my skin and the iris of my eyes, but within the air around me. In some small way, she'll always be with me- home together.
