My biological mum passed before I could find her. And the sire. Little sister, too. My sister. I had a sister. I found out at the age of 54, in an email...the same email that told me I had a brother, living. And another sister, in another country, lost still, in the absence of names or dates or places. (So much to process, one day I'll get around to it)
My adoptive mum and dad passed in my 20's. There's so much beauty in my life, such an intensity of love and life. So much to be grateful for, and so much good living to do. So much. I don't want to give a precious second of it to sorrow or tears, but I will lay their place at my table, the same as I do for all the other feelings. They are all valid, they will come and go, come and go.
No-one says, "I'm sorry for your loss." How can they understand that the ghosts who walked behind me all my childhood have died, and now I must find a way to mourn them. Soon, I must visit their graves and make it real. I'm so blessed to know where their graves are, so blessed.
Whilst they lay dying, I would have been working, walking, hoovering, cooking, oblivious behind my not knowing. How could this be? I don't know. Thank goodness for our adoptee community where someone else will know this feeling too. Know this dark and wild place where the winds howl and the rain drives and the sky, like the aeons is endless, silent and wide. To walk along the ragged edge of the world alone, suspended in trust and hope and other vaporous unseen forces which are now our reality. When our reality should be her body, her/my milk, her voice, her aura, for she is life and the rest is death. A little death, or a big one, I can't be sure that I'm not a ghost, invisible as my grief and I truly are in the fullness of our being.
We wait it out like a long night and give thanks when we come back to precious life, like the sun rising again, but our being holds so much. So much.
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