Just now I read through my adoption papers, again.
I was looking for a name. Just one name would make a difference.
There is not a single name in any of my papers, nowhere in the text explaining some of the events that I went through as a baby.
There was a woman who took me to the police.
She had found me in the street.
There was the director at ICBF who contacted the police officer who took me in when the woman came to drop me off.
They are ghosts that must have held me.
They are nameless, unreal people who must have looked at me, talked to me, possibly fed me and even played with me.
Just people stuck in a time that I can’t remember, a time unknown to me.
There was a foster home, a woman who had older kids, who I lived with.
That is not even in the papers, it was only told to my adoptive parents.
There is a quick mentioning of a home that helped me develop and grow.
Another adult ghost in my first year of life.
There is a photo and an article in a paper, of me and two other girls.
So that anyone who knows us can come to claim us.
There is an arm reaching down holding on to the girl in the middle.
No face, no name, just an adult who was there, who saw me, who knew I existed.
A ghost to me.
My first year and a half of life is not just a fuzzy memory, or a time I have forgotten but can ask someone about.
No, my first year and a half is a black hole filled with faceless, nameless people.
A black hole filled with ghosts…
Written by Amanda Medina
March 21,, 2018
PS. We are all in this together!