Those of you who are friends of mine on facebook know I’m getting to the stage of life where memories of times past seem important to remember. Whether it’s my age, because I love genealogy that has stories to create whispers of who that person was, what they stood for, so who they were wasn’t lost in a sea of time, or just a personality quirk that’s always been there – I’m now officially that person who muses on the past.
Perhaps it’s just wanting to remember the good times now that most of my closest family have passed. I enjoy the musing sparked by events of the day, or just random thoughts that appear out of nowhere when I’m doing mundane chores.
Whatever it is, it’s part of who I am now.
There’s a downside though that I discovered yesterday. The adopted side of me reared itself to remind me that for all the wonderful warm memories I’ve accumulated over the years of my family, the memories of life-long friends, that I have no memories of my mother. That if she was still alive I could walk right past her and not know her despite having a few pictures of her. That if she called out my name, I wouldn’t recognise her voice. That I never knew her, never will know her.
That despite all the good, I still lost, and the loss never truly ends.
That is adoption.