A Stranger Family


Do you remember me?

You are my niece, Bambi?

(smiles to self) I am

I’m not sure when it will stop being weird/exciting/crazy to learn of the people who knew me in my life before. My brother and I never grew up wondering about uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents but we always knew there had been a mother and a father. Heck, we didn’t even know our father’s last name. So imagine my surprise when my brother and I sat across a table from our birth mom for the very first time and she told us of the grandmother and aunts we lived with. The grandmother I was named for and the one who drove her to the hospital to deliver me. Imagine my shock to know that we lived with people – people who knew us, who knew me, who hugged me as a baby, perhaps changed my diaper, perhaps carried me around – and people to whom I had disappeared.

I’m not really sure how to articulate the feeling. That there were…people…thinking of me.

The uncle who first found me, I had carelessly disregarded immediately with a, “I do not know this man” but mama said, “But he knew you.”

O

He not only knew me he looked for me. As she looked for me. Because I had disappeared.

I’ve imagined myself as the aunt and my niece as the disappearing child and it seems so unheard of, so impossible, and so tragically sad.