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In a Fog . . .

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I sit at the patio table and watch the sunrise.  I am still caught in my dream . . .

I have returned to The Agency, to visit.  Everywhere I see young mothers with newborns, some with their mothers in tow.  I’ve just come to visit!  There’s a staff meeting;  I open the door  to ask:  “Where’s Jeanelle? Where’s Becky?  I need a pregnancy counselor out here!”  Melissa smiles at me and says, “They aren’t here yet.  I’ll send them when they get here.”  I turn.  A light-skinned bi-racial woman holds her baby; I realize I knew her when she was Black!  I don’t have time to figure this out.  I say, ‘Follow me,” and we head to the conference room, the one with a big table.  There are other mothers and their mothers gathered here, each holds a newborn.  Two men are sitting at the table, laughing and smiling.  “Excuse me, why are you here?” I ask.  The swarthy man turns to me, beaming, says, “We’re Israeli.  We are friends of ____.  They said when we came to the States, we should go to the agency to see where they got their baby!” ( He doesn’t look Israeli; he looks like the East Indian pharmacy tech who hands me prescriptions at Costco.)  “You’re in the wrong place,” I tell him.  “Go back to the front desk and ask for an adoption worker.”  He and his friend vaporize, as possible only in dreams.  A young blond woman holds her baby up to me.  “You don’t have to do another adoption!” I say to her.  “But I promised I would!” she tells me.  I am prepared to tell all these women they are strong, they can mother their own children, they do not have to do another adoption.  Elliot reaches through the dream skin and gently tugs on my big toe:  “It’s 6:30.  Time to make pancakes.” 

 

I sit at the patio table.  I’ve finished my pancakes and my coffee is cold.  I am haunted by my dream. I still have work to do.

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Written by bethkoz

December 18, 2011 at 12:29 am

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