In a little more than a week, I will go to Texas to meet my mother’s family. This is what the adoption literature calls reunion, and adoptees will often refer to themselves as being in reunion after they have made contact with their natural families. But I do not feel like I am in reunion.
Reunion. Re-union. Union, again. To re-unite, you have to have been united before.
I don’t know these people. They seem nice. And I’ve actually met some of them before, when I was an infant, so I guess it is a bit of a reunion in that sense. But the key union upon which all the rest of this reuniting rests will itself have no reunion.
I will visit my mother’s grave, lay my hands on the ground above her ashes, and try to feel close to her. I hope it works. I hope something does.
A few feet of packed soil.
I wonder if international adoptees feel closer to their mothers when they touch the ocean.