A year ago, today, I saw The Kiddo.
I watched him move within his family. I watched him see me and look at me with curiousity that had me thinking he knew who I was without an introduction. I sat back and took him in, feeling segregated, but trying to desperately respect his parents, and their wishes. My arms ached to hold him, the same way I had when he was a baby. But they were refused, so instead, I memorized him and that rare moment where he and I could breathe in the same air. When the moment had past, I gasped, and prayed that I would remember enough to get me through the years.
The reality is, I have no idea when I will see him again, if history is any indication, it will be at least half a decade, maybe more. At this point, it’s still in the hands of his parents. I long for a relationship with him, and even more importantly, with them. I wish that there was an easier way to make this transition easier for all of us, but there seems to be more mountains to be moved before a relationship can take place. I’m so unsure of how to proceed, and I can only imagine that they are afraid of all the risks and uncertainties that go along with an open adoption.
I know that it’s a tough, vulnerable road.
But it has to be easier than this one. At least for some of us.
A year ago, I sat watching him, hoping, and remembering.
And a year later, I sit remembering and hoping. It’s an art I have become well accustomed to. The ability to wish and long is something that I have become an expert in, and so it seems, that for awhile, this may be my role.
To bide my time, to remember and wish. To hope and recall, and to think of the day when I am eventually given the opportunity to know the boy or man who once was a tiny baby in my arms.
The arms that still remember. They will always remember, and want.
I will always remember, and want.