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Brown Eyes

Brown Eyes

Brown Eyes
Can I confide in you
about a hesitancy
that shadows me?
Let me start with,
I am adopted
before you ask me
those non adopted minded,
urgent questions,
I’m going to smile,
look you in your objectifying gaze
and keep going,
not pausing for you
to perceive an opportunity
to cause me
to make you comfortable
with my existence.
So now you know.
I can read a room.
You have your first clue.

This written confession
is being penned in real time
to be shared immediately with other adoptees.
Those that feel the heat even in the shade.
There is so much to say as I see you.
You remind me by just showing up,
who I am and I am forgetful.
Perhaps another piece of evidence?
Who questions the non-adopted?
For me it is a blurry reflection in the mirror.
It is a forever fear of doing it wrong,
saying it incorrectly,
confusing everyone’s name, birthday
and who or what really matters?
Where does this clue, piece, face fit?
How did I function,
brown eyes in a blue-eyed family?
I did.
I loved.
I grew.
I married.
We multiplied,
brown eyes,
beautiful, long lashed.
Is this where adoption ends and family begins?
I did love before!
What have I learned besides gratitude?
Does adopted legacy have memory?
Is narrative inheritance a biological luxury?
Maybe I now cast a bigger, grown up shadow
or have more darkness
experience a different disappearing.
Which family tree envelopes history?
Which branches shelter me?
Still being invited and completely left out.

Can I trust you?
Will you listen if all I say is black ink on a white page?
Certainly, you can read.
Can you see me?
Do I even have your attention?
Can I write this into making sense?
I can so quickly forget who I am
what I am capable of.
Thank you for listening.
I am grateful even if I didn’t welcome the questions.
It is not like me to take a stand and draw attention.
This life work has been adoption’s homework.
To come forward if only for a little while,
to the edge of one life
and beginning of another.
We exist everywhere
and nowhere together.
I am me
and the memory of someone else.
Most days I forget which is expected.
The world says either is not quite enough.
In reality, I have so much to offer,
but please don’t tell anyone what I’ve told you.
Can this be just between us?

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