By Christine White
Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.
~Oprah Winfrey
I've never seen your actual face, only evidence of it in your daughter, my daughter, our child. I can't tell you my thoughts. I don't know your name or address -- only the child you carried in your belly, who you passed through your uterus and into this world. Sometimes, I think we are like the two chambers of her heart. You made the blood and the muscle of her heart, but I keep the blood flowing and feed her 24/7 love.
Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.
~Oprah Winfrey
I've never seen your actual face, only evidence of it in your daughter, my daughter, our child. I can't tell you my thoughts. I don't know your name or address -- only the child you carried in your belly, who you passed through your uterus and into this world. Sometimes, I think we are like the two chambers of her heart. You made the blood and the muscle of her heart, but I keep the blood flowing and feed her 24/7 love.
If I could take the blue of the sky, the green of the trees and the yellow in the petal of a sunflower, I would make a palette for you and use the beauty of nature to try to reach you. I would send secret messages in Morse code through shooting stars and tell you, "Today, we went to the museum. She, now five, was exuberant. She stood inside the bubble-making machine, trying to create a see-through film around her. She placed particles of rug under magnifying glasses and used her hands to pedal a bike, which powered an electric bulb."
If I could, I would tell you how she was cradled in my arms on the subway ride home like a baby in the fetal position, and said, "Mama, Mama, I'm tired." Fifteen minutes later as the train emptied, she hung from the silver handles overhead like an Olympian. She lifted both legs waist high as I spotted her.
If I could, I would tell you how your daughter, my girl, has missed you. I have held her while she is deep in a keening cry, a thundering primal scream that makes me ache every time. I scratch and rub her sleepy back, and say, "It's okay. There. There. I love you. You're safe," until she returns to sleep, sometimes on me, "the mommy mattress." When she screams "Mama" in that guttural way, I know she's not crying for me. Do you know how she calls out for you?
How many times did she cry, unanswered in the orphanage, for your arms, your touch, your body? And how did she feel when you did not come? Didn't you hear her? What could have kept you from running to her side? I can't know. But I wish I could tell you she's okay. She's happy, curious, radiant, and playful. She's deep and thoughtful and silly.
She cried for weeks when she started pre-school. The first day she didn't cry, another girl did. She went over to her and said, "It's okay. Your mama will be back." They are still friends.
I realize how much you mean to me, and how distinct and private her journey to you will be. I hesitate to say too much about her now as she will speak for herself someday. And I don't know what she will feel about you. I can tell you my feelings, though. I am grateful you carried her to full term. I am sorry you live in a country with a one child policy, poverty, and overpopulation. I try not to judge you.
Once, when she said she loved you as much as she loves me, I kissed her head and said, "I love her, too, honey. She made you." I felt a grace I didn't know I possessed, and a tenderness I never predicted.
I don't always know the right thing to say to her, but at least we can talk. I don't know what thoughts or feelings you try to send to her. I wish you knew how wonderful she is, how I could fill a letter a day detailing our lives, but I know it would never reach you.
You share her blood. I share her home. You share her ethnicity. I share her days. If I could turn air into an aroma that would bring you a moment of my time, I would take you to her, to watch and see her for yourself as she is in the act of becoming. Now, at seven, she says things like, "I'm only 60 percent full on my hug-o-meter," or, "Did you notice how I'm getting less shy?" She doesn't remember you, but sometimes she tries to imagine what you look like. Sometimes, I wonder which of her features is most like yours. Did she get her dimples or her thickening black hair from you?
In one photo of her crossing the monkey bars, her father said, "Look at that fierce determination on your face. I love it."
"I don't," she said as she rubbed her hands. "My hands hurt looking at the picture. I can feel it."
She feels you that deeply. Sometimes you are a gaping hole that makes her weep. Other times, you are a space she inhabits with pride. I'm trying to tell you what I can't say to your face, on a letter or over the phone. Your daughter, my daughter, our daughter loves and misses you.
If I could, I would tell you how she was cradled in my arms on the subway ride home like a baby in the fetal position, and said, "Mama, Mama, I'm tired." Fifteen minutes later as the train emptied, she hung from the silver handles overhead like an Olympian. She lifted both legs waist high as I spotted her.
If I could, I would tell you how your daughter, my girl, has missed you. I have held her while she is deep in a keening cry, a thundering primal scream that makes me ache every time. I scratch and rub her sleepy back, and say, "It's okay. There. There. I love you. You're safe," until she returns to sleep, sometimes on me, "the mommy mattress." When she screams "Mama" in that guttural way, I know she's not crying for me. Do you know how she calls out for you?
How many times did she cry, unanswered in the orphanage, for your arms, your touch, your body? And how did she feel when you did not come? Didn't you hear her? What could have kept you from running to her side? I can't know. But I wish I could tell you she's okay. She's happy, curious, radiant, and playful. She's deep and thoughtful and silly.
She cried for weeks when she started pre-school. The first day she didn't cry, another girl did. She went over to her and said, "It's okay. Your mama will be back." They are still friends.
I realize how much you mean to me, and how distinct and private her journey to you will be. I hesitate to say too much about her now as she will speak for herself someday. And I don't know what she will feel about you. I can tell you my feelings, though. I am grateful you carried her to full term. I am sorry you live in a country with a one child policy, poverty, and overpopulation. I try not to judge you.
Once, when she said she loved you as much as she loves me, I kissed her head and said, "I love her, too, honey. She made you." I felt a grace I didn't know I possessed, and a tenderness I never predicted.
I don't always know the right thing to say to her, but at least we can talk. I don't know what thoughts or feelings you try to send to her. I wish you knew how wonderful she is, how I could fill a letter a day detailing our lives, but I know it would never reach you.
You share her blood. I share her home. You share her ethnicity. I share her days. If I could turn air into an aroma that would bring you a moment of my time, I would take you to her, to watch and see her for yourself as she is in the act of becoming. Now, at seven, she says things like, "I'm only 60 percent full on my hug-o-meter," or, "Did you notice how I'm getting less shy?" She doesn't remember you, but sometimes she tries to imagine what you look like. Sometimes, I wonder which of her features is most like yours. Did she get her dimples or her thickening black hair from you?
In one photo of her crossing the monkey bars, her father said, "Look at that fierce determination on your face. I love it."
"I don't," she said as she rubbed her hands. "My hands hurt looking at the picture. I can feel it."
She feels you that deeply. Sometimes you are a gaping hole that makes her weep. Other times, you are a space she inhabits with pride. I'm trying to tell you what I can't say to your face, on a letter or over the phone. Your daughter, my daughter, our daughter loves and misses you.
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