Thursday, August 23, 2012

At the Museum: Another Adoption Reunion Story

My father and I move among the European masters. We have come to see Renoir’s dancers, but we are uncertain of our own steps. There is nothing on the map of the museum floor plan that can tell us how to navigate this adoption reunion. We must find our own way.

It’s not our first meeting, but it's the first outing that involves just the two of us. And though we are related, we have no history to guide us, no established pattern of interaction. We wander apart, examining the pictures on our own, but before long I find that we are standing together in the middle of the room. A comment about a painting leads to a story from my life, and as our conversation unfolds something clicks into place. I can’t describe what has shifted, but for the first time I begin to trust that we just might be able to pull this thing off.

We will move on to the American wing, and we will continue to drift apart and back together, finding our own rhythm, at times speaking, at times standing together before the same painting in a silence that is surprisingly comfortable. Eventually there will be coffee and then dinner, questions asked and answered, stories told. And the corners of our mouths will curve upward with recognition of each other and shared delight and surprise at finding ourselves together after all these years.

4 comments:

  1. girl, you have such a gift with words! smiling ear to ear for you!

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  2. UGH! LOVE this! Thank you for sharing, Rebecca. This is just beautiful and I so wish that my own son's reunion with his father could be so sweet but...

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  3. Happy tears. Just...happy. Reading your reunion story just makes me glow. Thank you so much for sharing!

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  4. This is beautiful. I greatly enjoy your writing and your authenticity.

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