Last year this time, I was still getting them ready each day for their little school.
I could still hug them.
I was still fixing her hair.
We were still singing in the truck together.
We were still reading books together.
We were all still juggling life with the 8 of us.
We were still potty training him.
We still heard the pitter patter of much smaller feet.
It has been 8 months since our two foster children left us. I know I can speak for every person here in our home, we still miss them.
I am reading a book by Jaiya John entitled Black Baby White Hands: A View From the Crib. It is a memoir that I have just begun about John, a black man, that was adopted by a white couple in the late 60’s. Thus far, the reading is rich with American history and John’s poetic telling of his beginnings. I thought of our two little precious foster kids that were here for a year and a half as John wrote about his foster-mother:
I do not know her name, or her essence, but I do know that the nine months I spent in her presence shaped me. I believe that she has passed away, but how I wish I could find her, wrap my arms tightly around her, and thank her for carrying me through my first nine months following birth, the second nine months of my existence. It was in her care that I became more than a pronoun.
Tears came to my eyes when I read those words. It seemed like his words hugged me.
I do wonder if they will remember us.
We helped them through a very difficult time in their little lives.
They were so young.
They may never find their way back to us, but a piece of us is with them and will forever be part of them and their story.
(M & S are currently in the process of being adopted by extended family.)