Transforming a Day

I think every one has a Day. One single day that strikes their heart like the dong of an hour they never really wanted to see. An anniversary of some unhappy event that refuses to dull its pang each following year its acknowledged.

Two days ago I celebrated the birth of my very first child, E. He's ten years old now. I'll never regret his birth or his life, but today is a much different day than two days ago. Today is my Day. It is the day I signed too many pieces of paper, held him in my arms for the last time, and watched a man strap him into a car seat and walk out the front door. I've never seen little E in person again. For the next year, I received letters and photos from his adoptive parents, but I allowed my weakness to take control and never wrote back. I never knew what to say. I thought about it too much. I wanted to write a letter a small child could understand, but I also wanted it to speak to the teenager, the twenty-something that would most likely reread it in the future as he tried to understand why I chose what I did. I stressed over it so much that I never finished a single letter. Countless first lines crossed out, erased, torn to pieces but never sent.

Every year I've wished I'd done something to commemorate E's birth instead of sulking in a corner scared of the day. This year I intend to do it. Like E, who's parents promised to always be truthful about his adoption, I intend to educate my children on the subject as well. They will always know they have an older brother.

So, "we" made a giant brown sugar cookie. We lit a candle and Keats blew it out. He's still too young to understand the meaning behind the ritual (he barely understood his own birthday party), but to him it was a Special Treat.

During nap time, I decided to get in touch with the agency I used so many years ago to find out how I could write and send a letter, etc. It's been too long. It's been too empty. It's been too quiet. It's time to get in touch. Unfortunately, with all the moving that goes on in ten years, it's proving a bit difficult to find E's family. Hopefully I'll hear back next week. My folder is out and on the counselor's desk!

Perhaps by this time next year I will have seen my son for the first time in over nine years, I will have written and received several letters, and Mother's Day will be that much brighter.