Forgetting, Learning

On Christmas Eve I sank into the tub
with two gifts from my firstborn:
a book of poetry and a tube of honey bubble bath.

Both had come from my wish list and
both had arrived on time, something for which he was not known.
Was he growing up? Was I?

I lay there, soaking, banishing the chill of a seasonably cold day
in unseasonable Arizona. I read the book cover to cover,
one poem after another.

As I read I wondered why I had requested this book.
I'm not a poetry-kinda-gal. There was something about each poem
that was not like me, not something I would have chosen.

Then I reached the part about adoption, about being adopted.
And there, on the final page of the book, was the poem I had read
on an earlier day. There was the phrase that resonated with me.

"I believe 'normal' is just a cycle on the washing machine."

I looked to books, looked for books, to feel less alone,
to affirm my existence.
I had always wanted to be normal, but had never succeeded.
I always wore that adoptee's hat of "not here, not now."

I always wanted to be accepted, loved, accepted, good enough, accepted.
My friends, my children, reassured me that I was.
Accepted. Loved. Good enough.
But I didn't know it. Didn't feel it. And tried to believe it.

And yet here, on the final page of a book I received after fifty-seven years
of not being normal, was a poem entitled "Creed" that I wished I had written.

Creed, credo, what I believe.
I believe Mother said what she did out of ignorance.
I believe the original mother believed she was being kind.
And yes, I believe my friends and my children love me.
I deserve that. I deserve to learn that and carry it with me,
sitting on my shoulder along with Daddy, who whispers in my ear,
"You're a good girl."

I'm a good girl.
I'm acceptable.
I'm good enough.

That'll do.

###

"Creed" by Meg Kearney
from An Unkindness of Ravens

I believe the chicken before the egg
though I believe in the egg. I believe
eating is a form of touch
carried to the bitter end. I believe
chocolate is good for you. I believe
I’m a lefty in a right-handed world,
which does not make me gauche,
or abnormal, or sinister. I believe
“normal” is just a cycle on the washing
machine. I believe the touch of hands
has the power to heal, though nothing
will ever fill this immeasurable hole
in the center of my chest. I believe in
kissing, I believe in mail, I believe
in salt over the shoulder, a watched pot
never boils, and if I sit by my mailbox
waiting for the letter I want, it will never
arrive. Not because of superstition, but
because that’s not how life works.
I believe in work: phone calls, typing,
multiplying—black coffee, write write
write, dig dig dig, sweep, sweep.
I believe in a slow, torturous sweep
of tongue down the lover’s belly;
I believe I’ve been swept off my feet
more than once, and it’s a good idea
not to name names. Digging for names
is part of my work, but that’s a different
poem. I believe there’s a difference
between men and women, and I thank God
for it. I believe in God, and if you hold
the door and carry my books, I’ll be sure
to ask for your name. What is your name?
Do you believe in ghosts? I believe
the morning my father died I heard him
whistling “Danny Boy” in the bathroom
and a week later, saw him standing
in the living room with a suit case
in his hand. We never got to say goodbye,
he said, and I said, I don’t believe in
goodbyes. I believe that’s why I have
this hole in my chest: sometimes it’s
rabid, sometimes it’s incoherent.
I believe I’ll survive. I believe early
to bed and early to rise is a boring
way to live. I believe good poets borrow,
great poets steal, and if only we’d stop
trying to be happy, we could have a pretty
good time. I believe time doesn’t heal
all wounds; I believe in getting flowers
for no reason; I believe Give a Hoot,
Don’t Pollute, Reading is Fundamental,
Yankee Stadium belongs in the Bronx,
and the best bagels in New York
are boiled and baked on the corner
of first and 21st. I believe in Santa Claus,
Jimmy Stewart—Zuzu’s petals—Arbor
Day, and that ugly baby I keep dreaming
about. She lives inside me, opening
and closing her wide mouth. I believe
she will never taste her mother’s milk,
she will never be beautiful, she will always
wonder what it’s like to be born, and if
you hold your hand right here—touch me,
right, here, as if this is all that matters,
this is all you ever wanted, I believe
something might move inside me,
and it would be more than I could stand.