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.”
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.