“It’s my mother’s birthday this weekend,” she tells me as we ride the bus away from work. “Well, really my boyfriend’s mother. But they are like my adopted family.”
I nod along, thinking of my own adopted family. A family full of strong, vibrant women tied together tightly with string. I tend to feel this sense of duality as to how I fit into the picture with them. It’s like standing on a ledge, rocking back and forth on your heels while hanging onto the knotted bedsheets. Fragile, yet solid.
It is a strange thing to walk through life with pieces missing, like those empty spheres in a game of Trivial Pursuit. And then to have those spaces filled by a simple encounter between strangers that leads to everything else.
I’m not sure when exactly they handed me the first piece. Was it that initial conversation over coffee, when I caught a glimpse into some other sense of reality? To find someone who had actually lived a life against the grain of my Middle America upbringing. Or maybe it was Christmas Eve dinner? Nothing traditional, full of quick hugs and warm conversation.
I like to think it was less an outwardly action and more the transition from clammy palms to comfortable silence. They let me into their homes, into their world. At times I sat rapt in the depths of stories that spanned centuries. It was like a watercolor mural in comparison to the blank slate of my own family tree.
Even the first time I heard “love you” jostled me. It took almost a decade to be able to express those words to my own stepfather, a man who raised me, a constant presence for most of my life. And yet there they were, simple and heartfelt.
It was an anomaly only for me, not for the quirky, ebullient and understanding voice at the other end of the line. I didn’t expect the joy to be contagious; or the sage wisdom during trying times; or the open ears. I didn’t even suspect that I would be adding another layer to my personal life, a deeper hue once I moved west.
A part of me worried about the distance I would put between these bonds. Was this relationship supposed to be ephemeral? It was just like those cliché little chain emails to make you consider the length and consequence of life’s relationships.
But distance did little to dampen the spirit. There were cards, calls and text messages. Communication that did much to comfort in the big chasm of city life. A few weeks ago, I spent the weekend watching these women sifting through memories with delicate hands and heavy hearts, feeling at times ever the spectator. But at the end of the day, one said to me “…after all, you’re family,” and I pulled the bedsheet a little closer.
Jill Tydor lives and works in the Bay Area.
