We had to travel unexpectedly to see my grandmother who fell and broke her hip (not a great Xmas gift for anyone). Hanging out in her home tonight we discovered a box of family treasures. We pulled out my grandfather's worn leathe Bible, birth certificates, and dozens of sepia-tone photographs mounted in cardboard pockets.
I loved looking into the faces of my relatives and seeing myself. My Grandpa Ervie's smile, my Grandma Dutchie's saucer eyes, my father's confident stance. I've always enjoyed collecting family tales, but I know much more about my mother's side than I do about these people who stared out from the past tonight.
I felt what I always feel--a sense of belonging, of knowing who and WHY I am. And as much as I believe in adoption, gazing into the familiar eyes in the photos makes me long for a biological child in whose laughter I hear my father's father and in whose cornsilk hair I smell my baby sister. I don't know if it's a biological or cultural drive, this pull towards continuing a lineage (no matter how flawed), but I feel the tug.
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