The Bookish Child

I was the child who made her way slowly home from school, book in hand, reading as she walked. "In a world of her own," people said. The other night as I was falling asleep, I thought of that girl. I saw her as if watching from across the street as she moved slowly along the sidewalk.

I understand things about her that she doesn't yet grasp about herself. I know that though she is not unhappy (in fact, in some ways, she is perfectly content), she is also profoundly lonely. It is a feeling that she can't yet put into words. At this point, she can't even name it as loneliness or loss or disconnection. It is all she's ever known.

What would I say to her, if I could speak across the years? Perhaps only this: Keep walking. Keep reading. Keep turning the pages. There are better chapters ahead.

Postscript: The bookish child became a bookish adult and eventually discovered a new category of books: those that speak directly to her adoptee experience. Please visit Lost Daughters and read today's post by KarenPickell for more on that subject. 

Photo credit: adamr at freedigitalphotos.net