The mother who raised me taught me to shop for bargains the way our distant ancestors taught their daughters to search for the best nuts and berries.
She also taught me to gather sea glass.
Years later, when I met the mother who didn't raise, she too was a bargain gatherer. I watched her move along the racks of the thrift stores rubbing fabric between her practiced fingers, a habit learned from her mother and grandmother, reflective of the family's history in the fabric industry. My first mother shops by touch.
It's a piece of my lost heritage, a habit I didn't acquire. But we both know to run our fingers along the edge of each piece of sea glass checking for soft roundedness. Pieces with sharp edges need more time in the sea.
Before I met the father who didn't raise me I gathered fragments of him. Each tidbit of information was a berry dropped with a plunk into my nearly empty bucket.
For years he hid from me, not wanting to be found.
But I am the daughter of patient mothers.
I am the daughter of finders.
"What changed?" I asked him when he allowed himself to be found at last.
"I was ready," he answered.
Timing is everything in the art of being found.
|Photo credit: Maureen of Tidal Gems|