The day they say I was born is the day
my Omma wrote 9/21 on a piece of paper she pinned to me before leaving, or
a social worker closed her eyes, pointed a finger, and landed on that date, or
a doctor guessed based upon the number of kilograms on the scale.
Who knows?
The day they say I was born is the day
my Omma was fooled by nature to nurture me,
marking the start of seven weeks until the finish
of us.
The day they say I was born is the day
my adoptive parents celebrate my arrival,
not to the world, but to their world,
recalling the toes and fingers and nose of their six-month old newborn,
forgetting that I belonged to someone else before them.
The day they say I was born is the day
I share with my adopted sister,
six years and seven days apart.
Close enough.
Joint parties with cakes that were
half Big Bird, half unicorn,
half me, half her.
Malleable, movable, mutable sisters
molded into convenience.
The day they say I was born is the day
I announced I would not celebrate my birthday anymore,
not celebrate the loss of being born,
not celebrate the loss of being lost.
And it is also the day I cried
alone
because that was not what I really wanted either.
The day they say I was born is the day
I have learned to draw closer and hold tighter
to my sons who miss their first mamas too,
to my daughter who taught me what a birth day actually is,
and to my husband who gets up early to slow cook short ribs for my dinner,
nourishing me the only way he can.
The day they say I was born is the day
I howl
openly in bittersweet heartache
for what could have been, for the loss of not knowing
what could have been.
Uncertainty of origin drives people to tell tales.
Jews and Genesis, Greeks and Gaia, Koreans and Tangun, and
me and the day they say I was born.
** Listen to this, and other adoptee voices, on the Adoptees On Podcast Adoption Remembrance Day Episode from 2022 here.