Sitting in the sunlight which is streaming through my very own room, I write a letter. I am enjoying the twittering of birds in the trees outside my window and the shush of the air conditioner vent, cooling down this Summer-like day. It’s very pleasant.
But then she comes back from school. The creak of the front door, the thump of her backpack on the floor, the stomping up the stairs, the crash of her bedroom door. It sounds very routine.
Every week day, greetings are ignored on the staircase where she bumps against me. I let it roll of my shoulders. Yesterday, while my parents were at the hospital with Granny, Birdie and I cleaned and did laundry and cooked dinner. It wouldn’t have seemed much of a burden really, if after Sam and Willin and Jubilee all chanted their thanks, she had too. Just one word before you push your fork into your mouth. Just a “thanks.”
While I sorted towels and threw them in the washer, pulled sheets out of the dryer, folded socks, while Birdie dusted the window sills and did all the home-schooling with the other three, she was on the couch, asleep. Oh how she can sleep!
I’m not writing this to complain, to gain your sympathy or your praise. My day-to-day life, I think, would be very much the same whether she was here or not. We cook, we eat, we clean up. Sometimes we see her, sometimes we don’t.
She’s a pretty girl. Clever, talented, very well-liked at school. I wonder at her home-life, for didn’t she say that she wanted one? It must not be at all like she was hoping.
But back to the sunlight, the letter. I hear her come home and then become engrossed in my scribbles. I don’t hear the conversation starting between she and my mother, until I feel the tension through the floor. Jubilee comes upstairs to borrow my little red scissors and avoid the scene. I hear that it is something about homework, teachers, computer privileges. Then with the playing dumb, the lying, the begging. Her tone becomes frustrated and sharp, my mother’s choppy with attempted patience.
I’m bringing my ice cream-sticky mug down stairs when she tornados past me on the second flight. I just brace myself and bump by.
Her brown-red face blurs past and I see my mother sitting in her chair in the living room, looking weary. I feel my blood heating up and before it boils, I go back up the stairs and look out the landing window.
Sam and Willin are kicking the football around in the soft, five o’clock light. I can hear my dad on the phone, telling someone that he’d still like to go back to Haiti someday. For half a moment, Haiti gives me a bad taste. What if going to Haiti brought me another relationship that feels like a failure? What if my efforts were met with more ingratitude?
But that moment passes as the boys pass the ball. My blood cools down, my heart warms up and I think that nobody could replace these children in my life. Nobody could replace mischievous, goofy Willin. Nobody could replace patient, witty Sam. Nobody could replace hilarious, bouncy Jubilee. And nobody could replace her. Even with the shoulder bumping on the stairs. Even with the brash words. Even with the shoveling food with no gratitude.
She’s taught me stuff. And it’s not her fault that that’s the role she’s had in my life. No, her actions aren’t always acceptable, and they are her responsibility, but she didn’t choose Haiti, abandonment, separation, neglect, three-year adoption, mental trauma, learning disability, tricky age-order, language barrier, insecurity, emotional baggage, begging bio-relatives, confusion.
She didn’t choose all that, but I can choose love, because the truth is, love is always worth the risk. Every time.
everly
other posts about her here:
the storm (and mostly after it)
contrast
ransomed from futile ways
love thy neighbor (easier said than done)
But then she comes back from school. The creak of the front door, the thump of her backpack on the floor, the stomping up the stairs, the crash of her bedroom door. It sounds very routine.
Every week day, greetings are ignored on the staircase where she bumps against me. I let it roll of my shoulders. Yesterday, while my parents were at the hospital with Granny, Birdie and I cleaned and did laundry and cooked dinner. It wouldn’t have seemed much of a burden really, if after Sam and Willin and Jubilee all chanted their thanks, she had too. Just one word before you push your fork into your mouth. Just a “thanks.”
While I sorted towels and threw them in the washer, pulled sheets out of the dryer, folded socks, while Birdie dusted the window sills and did all the home-schooling with the other three, she was on the couch, asleep. Oh how she can sleep!
I’m not writing this to complain, to gain your sympathy or your praise. My day-to-day life, I think, would be very much the same whether she was here or not. We cook, we eat, we clean up. Sometimes we see her, sometimes we don’t.
She’s a pretty girl. Clever, talented, very well-liked at school. I wonder at her home-life, for didn’t she say that she wanted one? It must not be at all like she was hoping.
But back to the sunlight, the letter. I hear her come home and then become engrossed in my scribbles. I don’t hear the conversation starting between she and my mother, until I feel the tension through the floor. Jubilee comes upstairs to borrow my little red scissors and avoid the scene. I hear that it is something about homework, teachers, computer privileges. Then with the playing dumb, the lying, the begging. Her tone becomes frustrated and sharp, my mother’s choppy with attempted patience.
I’m bringing my ice cream-sticky mug down stairs when she tornados past me on the second flight. I just brace myself and bump by.
Her brown-red face blurs past and I see my mother sitting in her chair in the living room, looking weary. I feel my blood heating up and before it boils, I go back up the stairs and look out the landing window.
Sam and Willin are kicking the football around in the soft, five o’clock light. I can hear my dad on the phone, telling someone that he’d still like to go back to Haiti someday. For half a moment, Haiti gives me a bad taste. What if going to Haiti brought me another relationship that feels like a failure? What if my efforts were met with more ingratitude?
But that moment passes as the boys pass the ball. My blood cools down, my heart warms up and I think that nobody could replace these children in my life. Nobody could replace mischievous, goofy Willin. Nobody could replace patient, witty Sam. Nobody could replace hilarious, bouncy Jubilee. And nobody could replace her. Even with the shoulder bumping on the stairs. Even with the brash words. Even with the shoveling food with no gratitude.
She’s taught me stuff. And it’s not her fault that that’s the role she’s had in my life. No, her actions aren’t always acceptable, and they are her responsibility, but she didn’t choose Haiti, abandonment, separation, neglect, three-year adoption, mental trauma, learning disability, tricky age-order, language barrier, insecurity, emotional baggage, begging bio-relatives, confusion.
She didn’t choose all that, but I can choose love, because the truth is, love is always worth the risk. Every time.
everly
other posts about her here:
the storm (and mostly after it)
contrast
ransomed from futile ways
love thy neighbor (easier said than done)
Caroline Rose Sanders 
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