i remember, thirteen #sol24

… that the only birthday cake you ever want is angel food cake, with chocolate frosting. You have a late summer birthday and for most of my working life I could spend your birthday with you and make your cake. The girls would help and one of them usually carried the cake to the dinner table as we all sang off key. They loved that you were the kind of grandmother who insisted they eat leftover cake for breakfast the morning after your birthday. For the last four years we haven’t been together-you live hundreds of miles from me and your birthday falls at a time when I cannot take vacation. The girls are grown and working now in cities far from you. We’re talking about you moving closer. We’ve done this before and just when I begin to get hopeful you change your mind, so I’m trying not to count on anything. But, I’d love to be able to make that angel food cake for you again.

i remember, twelve #sol23

… a Saturday morning, sitting alone in a chair whose back was against one of the wood-paneled walls of the large, formal room outside the office in which you were meeting with your boss. Your boss happened to be the Secretary of State. This one had a distinctive, low voice and a thick accent, and I remember hearing him through the closed door and thinking he sounded loud and not pleased. I remember resting my book on my lap and wishing your meeting would end so we could get on with our usual Saturday routine of you running errands with me tagging along. I remember sitting for a long time, waiting quietly, trying to read but mostly not. I remember when the door finally opened, and you and he stepped out into the room where I sat. I knew enough to stand. He walked over, patted me on the shoulder, and said something I don’t remember, but I’m sure was kind. Mostly I remember leaving the room, leaving the building, and starting my favorite time of the week with you.

i remember, eleven #sol24

…pondering, drafting, pausing, rewriting… for six months or more, composing a letter to you two. A letter I wasn’t sure I could send and that I believed would shock you, rock you, and call into question much of what you knew to be true. And I remember that late June morning when I woke early on the southeastern coast of Connecticut, where the sky begins to lighten before 5 a.m.- knowing that that was the day I would make last adjustments to my words, knowing I was ready to send my letter. That was the day the waiting began.

That was nearly three years ago. You got my letter. You were shocked. You wrote back, both of you. And we forge ahead, on a path with no roadmap, all of us now one of three, not two siblings.

i remember, ten sol#24

…how you always gave me time and opportunities to ask about her. Even though you had nothing new to add, you’d receive my questions patiently and reply with the same information you’d shared countless times before. One night when I was six or seven, as you were tucking me in and kissing me goodnight. One afternoon, when I was maybe 10 and due at the dentist for a routine cleaning, you idled the car at the curb. You let me wonder aloud until the urge to talk about it quieted.

“How old was she?”

“How tall was she?”

“She was in nursing school, right?”

“Do you think she ever saw me?”

“Do you think she thinks about me?”

“Do you think she has other children?”

I never asked you, “Do you mind when I ask about her?” I never asked you, “Do you think about her?” When I was young I didn’t know to say to you, “I’m so glad I’m yours,” even thought I thought it, even when I was asking all those question.

i want to remember, nine #sol24

…yesterday and the many afternoons we’ve taken little adventures together. Precious moments. Easy afternoons. We’ve been doing this for years, exploring together, even before you moved permanently to the area. Gillette Castle, Lyman Allen Museum, Connecticut College Arboretum and so many other places close by and further afield. Yesterday, when the sun emerged after several cold and gloomy days, we drove to UConn Avery Point. I had to use my phone to pay for parking, and all of that technology left you shaking your almost 89 year old head, but once that was taken care of, we set off walking along the path close to the sea. The sun shone on the surface of the water, little beads of light dancing across its surface. The air was chilly but not bitter. We walked, talked, and wandered. This adventure was just the way we like it- not too long, not too hard, no crowds, just time together. I want to remember our tiny adventures always.

i remember, eight #sol24

…joining your third grade class in the middle of the school year. Probably not ideal for you. I understand that better now, having been a teacher myself. It was February when I arrived, and I’d been out of school for a month and in a British school on an island halfway across the world before that. Did you know all of that? I am not sure. You must have known the British school part because I came back to the States with a hint of an accent. You never asked me about it, so I stayed quiet.

I remember you gave me a spelling test. I loved to write and read, and I remember thinking this would be easy. I remember you took my paper and handed it back later with three big red Xs on it next to several words I’d written- colour, grey, and aeroplane. They were spelled correctly and I was confused. I remember trying to explain. And I remember you turned your back and walked away after telling me that’s not how we spell those words here.

I remember thinking when I’m a teacher I will be nicer.

i remember, seven #sol24

…walking into my new school on the first day of classes. It was September, 1980. I was the only new sophomore, joining a class of 59 other girls. There’d been no new student orientation. I hadn’t been assigned a “buddy.” This was back in the days of you’re-just-going-to-have-to-figure-this-out-on-your-own. I remember finding my locker and opening it, maybe to put something in or take something out.

You called out across the hallway crowded with talkative girls, “Hey, are you Lisa? My mom told me about you. She told me to be sure to say hi to you.” I nodded. You walked closer, introduced yourself, and explained that your mom and mine were friends who had attended the same school thirty years ago. I vaguely recalled my mother telling me about her friend and her friend’s daughter, but it wasn’t top of mind on my first day in a new school where I’d clearly already gotten several things wrong, including missing the memo that the uniform skirt should be hemmed so that it fell several inches above knee length and that short socks were a must. My knee-length skirt and knee socks were a giant mistake.

I remember thanking you while feeling embarrassed that you’d been tasked with seeking out the new girl. You knew everybody and clearly had many friends and better things to do. Over the years, though, right up until a few weeks before you died, you always made a point to write, text, or call. We’d laugh about that first encounter. We’d talk about our moms. You’d share news about our classmates, many of whom I never knew well in the three years I was part of the school. At your funeral, I leaned down and hugged your mom, who was in a wheelchair, and told her what a kind friend you had been over the years. I don’t know if she knew who I was, but before I walked away I told her I’d be sure to say hi to my mom for her.

i remember, six #sol24

…that afternoon like it was yesterday. After I parked my car, I reached into the back seat to get my work bag. As I pulled my belongings out and turned around, there you were, walking across the street, gun in hand, pointed at me. I froze.

“Give me your keys,” you said as you got closer. All of me felt wobbly as I opened my fist and extended my arm toward you.

“Give me your purse,” you continued. I reached over to my left shoulder with my right hand and pulled my bag off my arm. My eyes darted from your face to the gun to the street around us, which was empty and quiet. I began to think about how much a bullet was going to hurt.

“Get in the car,” you said, but your tone was less forceful with this command.

“No, ” I replied quietly and began to back away- from you, from the car, from my keys and my purse. You didn’t argue. Instead. you got in the car as I crouched behind a picket fence. A picket fence. Like that was going to stop a bullet.

Three thoughts were looping in my brain: I hope he doesn’t open my wallet- there’s no cash. I hope he can drive a stick shift car. And- get ready- he’s going to shoot- it’s going to hurt- but you are not going to die.

You drove off. I ran to the closest front door, banged as hard as I could, yelled for help, and the tears started flowing.

Later, the police told me they thought you might be an inexperienced carjacker. Later the news reported that a car that matched mine was used in several convenience store robberies. Later, my car was found abandoned next to a graveyard. You’d taken the stereo. You’d shaken me to my core. But you hadn’t taken me. I am still here.

i remember, five #sol25

… almost four years ago when you responded to my message on Ancestry. My DNA results had come in that day. You’d shown up as a “close match.” I wrote to you after researching what the amount of DNA Ancestry reported we shared might mean- telling you who I was, when I was born, that I was well and had been raised by wonderful parents, asking you if you knew about me. My message started with these words, “Hello. I do not expect a reply. We may be related.” I suppose I was guarding my heart and offering you an out. Your first reply came quickly, and it was guarded too and I knew you knew who I was. I knew you needed time to think. You wrote that you would be back in touch later that evening.

I remember when your second message arrived late that evening. Past my usual bedtime. But this night, I was awake, waiting. “Hello Lisa, I am your aunt and knew both of your parents well.” We messaged back and forth a few times that night. I opened a door that had been closed for almost 55 years. You stepped through it with me.

i remember, four #sol24

…sitting with you in the hospital in an area designated for families of patients. For three years we’d rarely seen each other and once the divorce was final, we’d spoken only a handful of times. But in this moment we were together. Together in our fear. Together in our love for our daughter. Her surgery would cure her; we knew that. And the doctor warned us it would take time because they’d have to work slowly to disrupt as few nerves as possible and avoid blood vessels and the main artery in her neck. And so we sat, mostly in silence, glancing up at the screen that projected patient numbers and information about their progress in the OR. Pre-op, in surgery, in recovery. You offered reassuring words about how strong our daughter is. You cracked a joke or two. Joking had always been your thing. I wanted tea and something to eat as I’d forgotten to eat anything when our daughter and I woke in the dark, packed a small bag for her, and headed to the hospital before dawn. You offered to come with me, and then you paid for my yogurt and tea. We sat while I ate. And you said you were sorry, that I hadn’t deserved what had happened, that your anger was too much. I sipped my tea and nodded. Did I say thank you for the apology? I can’t remember. Thank you. We stood and walked back to find our seats under the screen, and we waited, together and apart, for our daughter’s surgery to end.