That night before bed I crawl next to Papa on the futon couch. “Tell me about my special day please?” We are in the sunroom and Papa takes off his reading glasses and sighs a deep sigh pretending to be annoyed.
“Aren’t you getting too old for this story?” He teases as the lines around his eyes crinkle into a smile. “I’ve been telling it to you since you were barely potty trained.”
“Come on. Please.” I whine.
“Once upon a time…” He begins as I settle in. “There was a mother and a father who so badly wanted another baby. But they knew they could not get pregnant again. One day they saw an ad for an adoption agency in Atlanta and they knew it was a sign. So they called the agency and ten months later a picture arrived in an email. A picture of a newborn. Brown eyed. Baby girl.”
“Me.” I sigh into the soft cotton of Papa’s shirt.
“And there you were. Our baby girl. We loved you the moment we saw you. We picked you up from the airport six weeks later. Your mother cried when the social worker put you into her arms. She wouldn’t let me hold you at first. You were hers. And then you were mine. And you know what kid? You were so small. So small that I could rock you in the palm of my left hand.”
“Yeah right!” I roll my eyes. But I watch as Papa picks up his left hand and cups his callused palm and rocks it back and forth. Back and forth in the air.
“Just like this.” He says.
And even though I’m too big for fairy tales. Even though tomorrow I face a new school and a new set of 6th grade teachers and a new locker combination. Even though these days I can’t help feeling like I’ll never be whole. That somewhere out there is a woman with my face. Another mother. Missing me the way I miss her. I try for a moment to imagine what it must have felt like to be so small. To sway and sway and sway. To belong in the cradle of his hand and not fall or blow away like hard dirt in the wind.